


Sustenance

by theoneandonlyzoom



Series: The Hiemal Gem [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, M/M, but Hux schools him a little, fic exchange submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-15 10:45:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13611729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoneandonlyzoom/pseuds/theoneandonlyzoom
Summary: Kylo Ren has spent the last five years fighting in the desert, leading the Southern Front for Emperor Snoke’s war against the Resistance. Global conquest is near at hand, but things take a turn for the worse when General Armitage Hux is captured and delivered far north to a Resistance stronghold in the Davarn Mountains. Ren has never ventured that far north himself; nor has he ever met Armitage Hux, but the severity the Emperor heaps on this situation implies there’s probably more to the man than what meets the eye.Whatever the case may be, Ren takes the mission without question. After all, the sooner he sets things in order with the General, the sooner he can return to his own quest of cutting down the Resistance army.He just fails to appreciate how difficult this mission truly is…{This is my contribution to the 2018 February kyluxficexchange, fulfilling the request for a “Steampunk AU” submission.}





	Sustenance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LordMortem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordMortem/gifts).



> A/N: Full disclosure, I had no idea what "Steampunk" was until I received this prompt. I chose it because I thought it would be a thoroughly enjoyable, if somewhat challenging, assignment. Once my wife sat me down to explain the 'discourse' over whether or not electricity is an acceptable power source in Steampunk AUs, I realized writing this would be harder than I anticipated. Therefore, because I am both a moron who wrote half of this before consulting his wife and someone who doesn't know when to quit, electricity exists in this story. Additionally, the setting for this fic is on a single planet instead of somewhere out in space, simply because I had trouble wrapping my mind around the idea of how steam would behave in a vacuum. Finally, the Force is still very much a thing in this AU (--and lightsabers, because those are just too cool to ignore).
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, LordMortem. It was a blast to write. I'm really sorry it turned out so damn long (or too short? I'm not sure).

Five years in the desert is a veritable death sentence for most.

At least, the officers assigned to the Southern Front treat it as such. The Resistance is strongest there. These so-called freedom fighters operate deep below the surface in hidden bunkers or masquerade as members of the nomadic tribes that wandered the scorching sands. They are apt at utilizing the environment to their advantage, striking First Order outposts during sandstorms or luring soldiers out into the dunes, far beyond the limit of their resources. They are clever. They are cruel.

And they were once winning.

Kylo Ren had barely pledged his allegiance to Snoke when he was instructed to turn the tide on the Southern Front. Both he and his old mentor came from the desert. It was where he first felt the Force screaming in his veins, hotter than the blinding sun. It sang to him. Changed him. Made him realize he was so much more than a lonely boy too terrified by his own dark thoughts. It was the panacea to all his earthly worries.

Slowly, but surely, he began to even the playing field.

It was therefore something of a surprise when he receives the summons. Not to one of their coastal outposts, but back to the Capital City itself, where Emperor Snoke sits upon his throne and lords over all, crippled but still clever. His watery eyes bear down on Kylo as he marches the long path to his dais, studying him, assessing him. It’s been five years since Ren last spoke with the Emperor in person. Until this moment, they have only corresponded via messenger.

Something, Ren assumes, must be terribly amiss.

“Your Majesty,” Ren murmurs, lowering himself to one knee, head bowed. The Praetorian Guard behind Snoke stand as still as statues, polished breastplates gleaming in the dim electric light. The only sound between them is the muted howl of the wind whipping at the palace walls and the gentle hiss of the pneumatic rifles they favor as their primary weapon.

“Rise, Lord Ren,” Snoke intones, his voice reverberating in the stone chamber.

Ren heeds his command, standing slowly, cautiously.

“You’ve performed admirably in your duties,” Snoke begins. Praise does not come easily from his master and so the comment puts Ren at ease. “I commend you for your work.”

Ren bows his head again, always gracious, always mindful of his debt to the Emperor. He wonders if he is to be reassigned now, if perhaps the Resistance has been only bidding its time in the desert to deflect his attention as they fester elsewhere. He has often wondered at their deflating numbers, although he would like to think he’s finally wearing them down.

“There is still much I have yet to achieve,” he admits quietly. “Poe Dameron lives.”

Snoke dismisses his concern with a wave of his hand. “If he does not fall before you, he will fall before another. I have more pressing matters that require your immediate attention.”

Despite the fact that he’s been torn from his sweltering domain, Ren finds himself intrigued. To be sent on a personal mission implies he’s progressed significantly with his training. He is all too eager to undertake any task that would further impress the Emperor. “What would you have me do?”

Something not too unlike a smile curls at the corner of Snoke’s lips. The gesture looks anything but benevolent on his wizened face, but quite often the Emperor’s malice is Ren’s endorsement to carry out unspeakable cruelties. “What do you know of General Armitage Hux?”

Ren pauses a moment to draw upon his memories of that name. He’s never met the man personally, but he’s heard of him. The son of another General and one of the youngest of his rank, Hux is something of an officer-cum-engineer. He works far in the north, directing one of their air fleets far above the frozen hinterlands, which are presently assumed to serve as yet another haven of Resistance.

Beyond that, the man is a complete stranger to him.

Snoke can already see into his mind. He leans back in his throne and sighs. “His ship was shot down over the Davarn Mountains three days ago. I’ve received word of his recent capture by the Resistance.” He folds his hands together over his lap, fingers steepled. “You are to retrieve him.”

Ren frowns.

While it’s true that Snoke values the many contributions his officers have made to the war, Ren knows his master considers them all expendable. In fact, Snoke’s killed more than a few of them personally in the past, foot-soldiers and Generals alike.

No one is invaluable in his conquest for global domination. Not even Ren.

Or so he thought.

Curious, Ren decides to probe a little deeper. “If retrieval is not possible, shall I kill him?”

“No.”

Confused, Ren doesn’t know what to say to that.

“The General is in the midst of designing a weapon of mass destruction,” Snoke elaborates. “It’s imperative that you retrieve him before the Resistance realize who it is they have in their custody. I need him alive.”

This, at least, makes sense, although it adds a level of difficulty to the General’s impending extraction. If Ren can’t kill the man to preserve the information he’s harboring, he will have to modify his usual battle tactics.

“You will take a small fleet to the hinterlands,” Snoke continues. “Vice Admiral Manex will assist you. You leave at sunset.”

“Yes, your Majesty,” Ren replies, lowering himself respectfully to one knee again before exiting the hall. His mind is awhirl with new strategies. He’s never undertaken an extraction before.

He doesn’t imagine it’ll present much of a challenge.

~***~

He finds a Lieutenant waiting for him outside his quarters once he’s collected what he needs for the trip. Much to his surprise, instead of escorting Ren to one of the city’s air bases the young man leads him down a winding pathway that runs deep below the palace grounds, briefing him along the way. Ren smells the salt water first, feeling the rush of hot humid air against his face before they turn the last bend in the passageway to reach the subterranean docks. It takes him only a moment then to register what he’s seeing.

The place is a hub of activity, sailors scrambling to load supplies into what appears to be more of a goliath than an actual ship. It’s long and sleek and curiously lacking a steam pipe for something its size, although Ren can’t be sure that’s a necessary warship accessory. He’s only been on a seafaring ship twice before, once on the way across the ocean to the Salorian Deserts and then again two days prior on his way back. Both of those vessels had been propelled by sails.

Lt. Mitaka gives him a moment to take it all in before he says, “This is the _Finalizer_ , Sir. It’s 1,608ft long, has a top speed of 60 knots, and can carry a maximum crew of 5,000. It’s also capable of storing 8 partially deconstructed airships for transport.”

Mitaka nods his head down the length of the dock. Ren follows his gaze. Sure enough, a large crane is maneuvering what he realizes is a gondola into one of the wide, open compartments within the top deck. He recognizes it as being from one of the longer airships, the kind Ren tends to use in the desert. It looks pathetically small hovering above the black behemoth.

“Impressive,” Ren remarks, willing to give it that match.

“It’s the General’s flagship,” Mitaka continues, a hint of pride in his voice. “In fact, he had a hand in designing it.”

Limited as his knowledge of Hux is, something about that seems off to him. “I was under the assumption the General operated exclusively from the air.”

“When fighting inland, yes, but we usually use the _Finalizer_ to ferry airships across the ocean. It’s more discreet.”

Ren would like to know how such a hulking beast managed to creep up on the peninsula of the hinterlands unseen, but he supposes he’s about to get a demonstration soon enough.

He adjusts the strap of his small equipment sack over his shoulder and proceeds onward, aware of the many eyes trailing after him to the gangplank. He knows he looks out of place in his surcoat and cowl, but at least he had the decency to forgo the helmet before coming down here today. He learned from the soldiers who fought alongside him in the desert that his mask was sometimes terrifying to the point of distraction.

While the officers are decked out in their usual black attire, the stormtroopers preparing to board the ship are instead suited up with silver-plated armor, their uniforms optimized with modified pauldrons and neck guards. Most are armed with the standard-issue rifles, which rely on gunpowder for propulsion, and a few of the officers blatantly have their pistols strapped to their thigh. This is the usual fanfare for the military. What’s unique are the pneumatic rifles a handful of the soldiers are wielding or the bizarre tanks Ren spots strapped their backs. They almost look as though they could be flamethrowers, something he’s never seen utilized in the desert. With the threat of heatstroke constantly hanging over everyone’s heads, it’s too risky to use any kind of heavily steam- or fire-powered weaponry in Saloria.

A man and a woman march down the main gangplank just as Ren is in the midst of eyeing up the troopers. The man is an older fellow with greying hair and a uniquely blue uniform, although he’s distracted from Ren by yet another gentleman at the base of the plank before he can introduce himself. The woman, on the other hand, ignores the interloper in favor of stepping forward to greet Ren directly.

“This is Captain Phasma,” Mitaka introduces. “She commands our stormtroopers.”

“Lord Ren,” she says with a sharp salute. Like her soldiers, she is wearing the standard silver-plated armor, although her pauldron and neck guard are a polished copper. Additionally, her entire right arm is encased in a modified gauntlet. Ren can see exposed gears at the elbow; under the meshwork, he believes he spots a retracted blade.

“Phasma of Parnassos?” Ren inquires lightly, pleased when he catches a glimpse of the fleeting crease between her brows. Her reputation, of course, precedes her. “Captain Archex used to command our stormtroopers in Saloria. He told me so much about you.”

Her face relaxes with a deceptive sort of calm, malcontent shining in her eyes. Ren knew about their history, about how Archex was once one of Snoke’s most trusted Captains before Phasma somehow managed to maneuver him out of favor. Their petty rivalry came to a head when Archex served as the personal guard of Admiral Mafe. The Admiral’s death was suspicious enough that Snoke deemed it necessary to relocate Archex to the desert, a passive sort of death sentence if an unpleasant one at that.

In all the time that Ren knew him, Archex always maintained his innocent.

“Used to?” Phasma asks, probing for more information. Ren touches a spot just below the surface of her mind and finds the steady pulse of loathing there.

“He’s dead.”

The pulse quickens.

She smiles.

Ren feels as though he might get along with her a little better than he did with her nemesis.

“Lord Ren,” her companion says, finally stepping forward to greet him. The old man salutes. “Vice Admiral Manex of the _Finalizer_. We’ll be leaving in just under an hour. Have you been briefed yet?”

“I’ve been informed that once we reach Varn’s Point, I am to be further escorted to the Davarn Mountains by one of your smaller airships. I disagree with this strategy. I will travel across the mainland alone.”

Alarm crosses the Vice Admiral’s faces, but he reins his emotions in quickly. “It’s a three day journey on foot from the coast to the Resistance stronghold alone, Sir. The _Finalizer_ can only dock at Varn’s Point for five before we’ve been instructed to deliver necessary supplies and airships farther north. I can assure you, the _Infinity_ was built for stealth.”

Ren contemplates his argument for a moment with mild irritation. He can’t stand to be questioned, but with such a tight time constraint he can at least understand the reason behind the Vice Admiral’s concern.

“The _Infinity_ is equipped with four small fighter planes,” Phasma supplies. “You can travel as far inland as you deem necessary and then carry on alone.”

Her addition eases his decision to accept the plans as they stand. “Very well,” he relents.

“Thank you, Sir.” Manex salutes him again before marching past him toward a squadron of troops, Phasma hot on his heels. Her piercing blue eyes catch Ren’s briefly before she averts her gaze.

Ren waits until they’ve passed before he moves to walk up the gangplank, but then he catches sight of the other gentleman still hovering in the corner of his eye.

Beside him, Lt. Mitaka also takes notice of the other man. Ren doesn’t need to use to the Force to feel the young man stiffen.

“Lord Ren,” the gentleman murmurs in greeting, now realizing he has Ren’s attention. He’s wearing an older uniform, greener than it is black; the embroidered stripes on his sleeve suggest he’s a General. He leans heavily into the cane in his right hand, pale eyes watery and cold, red hair touched with silver on the sides as he sizes Ren up. “I am General Brendol Hux. It’s been brought to my attention that you’re the man the Emperor is sending to retrieve my son.”

“He shouldn’t have allowed himself to be captured in the first place,” Ren mutters.

Rather than the small thrill of fear he’s accustomed to stirring up in officers who have children, the corner of the General’s lip curls into a cruel sort of smile. “I agree.”

“Sir?” Mitaka inquires softly, addressing Ren, as though trying to coax him away from the conversation.

Ren ignores him for the moment, mildly intrigued. “You think he deserves his fate?”

“I think nothing on the matter at all,” the General replies cryptically. He casts his eyes downward for a moment, as though chastised. But when he looks up again, his gaze is still utterly cold and apathetic. “I simply understand how difficult a live extraction can be.”

“You don’t think I’m capable?” Ren inquires, voice low and dangerous, drawing him into a trap.

Surprisingly, Brendol Hux doesn’t fall for it. Instead, he thrusts his left hand forward, uncurling his fingers to reveal a small copper box. It looks like a miniscule puzzle of sorts.

“Not at all,” the General amends. “I do, however, believe Armitage should make every effort to assist you along the way.” He holds his hand out a little farther until Ren relents in taking the curious device. “This is one of his inventions. Might come in handy. He usually has a knack for getting out of sticky situations.”

“It won’t be necessary,” Ren replies, but he slips it into one of the concealed pockets of his tunic all the same.

“As you wish,” is the General’s light response, as if it really makes no difference to him whether or not Ren decides to pass the device along.

Curiosity finally at its peak, Ren takes a dip into Brendol’s mind. It’s surprisingly simple, given that anxiety usually makes it difficult for Ren to find a straight mental path to his desired target. But Brendol Hux is strangely void of fear, which facilitates Ren’s search. What Ren finds behind the veil of his mind is an inky blackness festering there. A touch of madness.

Mitaka’s unease finally makes a little sense. After all, mad men are often unpredictable. Their instability is a sensible thing to fear.

“Sir,” the General murmurs as he salutes, watching as Ren finally mounts the gangplank to board the ship.

Lt. Mitaka follows close behind, agitated but quiet, leading him onward to his private quarters.

Ren wonders if Armitage Hux is anything like his father.

~***~

The reason behind the lack of a steam pipe is made abundantly clear when Ren finally joins the Vice Admiral on the command bridge.

Manex stands at the helm, one of his Lieutenants manning a set of levers beside him as orders are barked across the bridge. The wide viewport in front of them displays nothing more than the rocky surface of the interior of the hidden docks, no obvious exit in sight. Ren wonders for a moment it it’s some kind of illusion put in place by Snoke himself, but then Manex glances over at the meter for one of the pressure values and shouts, “Dive!”   

The _Finalizer_ shudders as it begins moving sluggishly forward and downward. Ren watches with guarded amazement as the dark waters around them eventually slosh up over the lip of the top deck before the viewport is complete submerged. Their vision is immediately obscured by a cloud of bubbles, which then melt away into darkness.

This darkness passes quickly as the windows of the viewport flicker to life with an internal blue light, outlining the jutting rocks of the cavern wall in front of them. In the top righthand corner of this improvised screen are a number of stats, such as the current depth and global position of the ship.

Manex stares at the viewport for a moment before he checks the gauge again. Then he reaches into his front pocket to produce a gold pocket watch. The gears tick softly as the seconds fly. “We should reach Varn’s Point in 21 hours,” he says. “That will give us just enough time to reconstruct the _Infinity_ and send you on your way before sunset.”

Ren nods, only half listening. His eyes are drawn to a woman sitting beside one of the consoles behind the Vice Admiral, headphones over her ears, pencil poised above a small pad of paper. A man soon joins her, pulling on his own pair of headphones.

“Those are our sonar technicians,” Manex explains, following his gaze.

“Sonar?”

“They use echolocation to determine the relative placement of our surroundings. We have a larger team downstairs who update the stats on the viewport, but it helps to have someone at hand on the bridge to alarm us to any immediate dangers.”

Clever. Quite clever, actually.

“I was told General Armitage Hux had a hand in designing this ship,” Ren says, wondering how much the man ultimately contributed to the final design.

“The General has a mind for architect,” Manex replies, not at all hesitant in voicing his praise. “He’s quite the inventor. His father dabbled a little in his prime, but Armitage Hux is the one who learned how to put his creations to good use. It’s both his hobby and his vocation.”

Which meant Armitage Hux pretty much lived for the military. Just the kind of person Snoke prefers to keep under his thumb, yet Ren is still alarmed by the Emperor’s reliance on the young man.

Force-nulls always have been and always _should_ be considered expendable.

“Is this the largest thing he’s developed?” Ren asks.

“No, he’s—” The Vice Admiral stops short, mouth still open, obviously wondering how he’s going to smooth out this little slip-up.

Ren lowers his voice. “I already know about the weapon.”

“Oh.” A bit of the color returns to his face. “I see, well…I know he’s making something, but not what it is. It’s larger than the _Finalizer_. That’s the extent of my knowledge.”

Ren probes his mind as Manex says this. Ultimately, he finds that the man is telling the truth.

No one really understands what General Hux is up to.

Other than Snoke, of course.

Satisfied with the lack of any deception on the Vice Admiral’s part, Ren leaves the man to his business. In fact, despite the novelty of riding in an underwater vessel, Ren doesn’t spend more than an hour outside his quarters. He wanders briefly through the corridors, listening to the ship groaning, pipes hissing, wondering how the hull of the ship maintains its integrity under such high pressures, before he turns his mind to meditation. At the end of the day, he settles down on his cot, legs folded together, and tries to clear his mind.

Sometime during his trance, he allows his thoughts to wander to the greater space around him. He picks up the mundane musings of the crew, of their satisfaction and their boredom, their irritation and their fear. He picks up on old memories within the _Finalizer_ , of people pondering their last battle, somewhere far, far north, when the Resistance tried to bomb them from their surface ships. The entire vessel had rattled during the attack, but not a single bomb hit its mark. Down below, in the deep dark solitude of the ocean, they were truly indestructible.

When Ren opens his eyes, he wonders what sort of mind it takes to dream up a ship that can sail through such a vacant space. Did Hux have no fear of being crushed or drowned? Or if the hull failed, would anyone live long enough to realize they were dying? How could Hux find any comfort living in this drifting tomb…

For some reason, Ren feels he already has an answer to that question. Out here, in the darkness, the _Finalizer_ is the most dangerous thing lurking in the quiet depths. The ship could spring up on anyone at sea. The Resistance would never know what hit them until it was too late.

Ren stretches out his legs and chews on one of the ration bars he grabbed from the mess hall during his short tour. People eyed him as he passed but they kept their questions to themselves. Intuitively, they knew he was the Master of the Knights of Ren, kin-killer and champion of the First Order, but no close companion of theirs.

Hunger satisfied, he exercises as much as he can in his cramped space and then settles in for the night. He sleeps soundly, dreaming only briefly of the desert. He misses the heat. Misses watching the sky burn as the sun dips below the horizon, all the colors of the world thrown askew, the blood in the sand turning black. His enemies must think themselves fortunate in the wake of his sudden departure.

There’s a yearning in him for Saloria.

Poe Dameron and Han Solo must die.

When he wakes, he rubs himself down with the water in the small basin beside his bed, eats a little more, and then meditates again. No one disturbs him until the day is nearly through.

Lt. Mitaka comes to collect him as soon as they reach Varn’s Point. He leads Ren to one of their inner loading bays, the ceiling rolled back to reveal a deep blue sky as a hydraulic crane lifts the gondola of he _Infinity_ out onto the deck. The sides of the airship glimmer in a peculiar way, throwing light when tilted at an odd angle while completely absorbing it at others. Nearby, a second crane elevates a small platform loaded up with the _Infinity’s_ folded balloon and a small team of engineers.

“We’re a few hours early, Sir,” Mitaka informs him, his breath puffy and white in the cool air. The Lieutenant is bundled up under a heavy wool coat to block out the cold. “Captain Peavey will be manning the _Infinity_ for the duration of your trip.”

Ren himself is wearing both an extra layer and his mask to combat the cool weather, although the cold doesn’t bother him much. Extreme temperatures entice a unique kind of pain in him, sharpening his focus. It edges him closer to the Force, reaching ever inward to bring himself to an internal state of equilibrium.

“This is for you,” Mitaka continues, reaching into his coat to produce a folded piece of parchment. Upon inspection, Ren realizes it’s a copy of the map he already possesses for the region. This one, however, is decorated with a series of small symbols.

“These are secret supplies posts and safehouses,” the Lieutenant explains. “While the Resistance holds domain over the mountains, the plateaus and the coastline belong to the indigenous folk and the slavers. Should you, for any reason, find yourself landbound, these areas will provide you with relative cover. Stay away from the townships, if you can. Most are run by slavers nowadays.”

Ren has little to no reason to fear a band of common criminals, but he takes the map and tucks it into his tunic all the same.

As Mitaka salutes him and marches off, Ren rummages through his sack for his lightsaber and a small water pouch, strapping both to his waist. Then he stands off to one side and watches as ten other officers and pilots are marched out into the loading bay. With the exception of Captain Peavey, who paces miserably in his heavy black coat, fidgeting endlessly with his cap, these men and women are bundled up in thick white fur-lined suits, faces hidden behind their air masks. They don’t move at all until one of the hydraulic cranes lowers an empty platform to shuttle them up onto the deck.

Ren finally joins them. Three of the officers turn their heads to glance his way as he hops onto the platform, but they otherwise make no move to address him. Even Captain Peavey is brief in his introduction as they rise up into the blinding whiteness of the day, shuddering as the wind whips around him.

The _Infinity_ ’s balloon has been fully inflated and installed by the time they get there. It’s made of some remarkably translucent material, almost invisible to the naked eye. Ren finds himself squinting at it through his mask, wondering how long it will take before another ship like this can be produced for the Southern Front.

Just as the sun dips dangerously close to the horizon and the sky takes on a rosy hue, the _Infinity_ passes its final inspection for take off. As promised, four small propeller planes are strapped to the ship, two on either side of the stern, their metal wings folded inward. They look like double-seaters, with barely enough room for a gunner to squeeze into the back in case of an emergency.

Captain Peavey and his people file onto the ship. Ren brings up the rear and slams the metal door of the hull shut behind him. He watches as four of the officers march off to the stern while the rest proceed to the flight deck up front.

As the dirigible takes off into the air, Ren takes a moment to explore the small warship. It’s a 30m long gondola and loaded up predominantly with explosives. There’s an upper and a lower deck; the former is where the sleep quarters and the small dining hall are, whereas the lower is composed of the flight deck and supply cabinets. At the far back of the lower deck he finds an open walkway that runs between the fighter planes, which are suspended on lever operated chains for a quick drop. He stands beside one for a long moment, staring down at the gap between the walkway and the plane. Below him, the sea gives way to earth, Varn’s Point being nothing more than a wide cliff sparsely covered in barren trees and dusty little shrubs. When winter comes, all of this will be buried beneath a blanket snow.

Eventually, Ren makes his way to the flight deck. They are headed east, toward the growing darkness. Captain Peavey informs him that, given the current conditions, they should reach the Davarn Mountains a little after sunrise.

Ren stands by the viewport and watches the dead scenery drift below him, gently clenching and unclenching his hands at his side, wondering what he will find at the Resistance stronghold.

~***~

He wakes the following morning to find a long chain of mountains looming on the horizon, the sun tipping up over their peaks. It is breathtakingly cold in the flight deck, but nobody appears to care much about the further dismal drop in temperature besides the Captain.

“The stronghold is there,” Peavey explains, pointing vaguely to one of the tallest peaks. “The bulk of it is built into the face of mountain itself. It was once a palace, I believe.”

Ren stares at the mountains for a while, squinting against the sun. He can’t see it, but he can sense it, a hub of bubbling life and activity. If he listens carefully, he can almost hear human voices ringing in his ears.

 _“This is far enough,”_ he says, voice distorted by the vocoder in his mask. _“I will proceed alone.”_

Captain Peavey gives him an incredulous look, but wisely says nothing to discourage him. “How long would you like us to hold back before assisting you?”

 _“You are not to approach the stronghold,”_ Ren instructs, the command sharp on his tongue. The last thing he needs is for the Resistance to get spooked into action by an overhead attack. _“Fly back to the coast. The General and I will trek to Varn’s Point on foot if we can’t reach you by plane.”_

“Is that sensible?” Peavey inquires—right before his windpipe closes unexpectedly.

Ren chokes him only for a heartbeat before releasing him. He takes a step forward to intrude on the man’s space. _“Are you questioning me, Captain?”_

“N-no, Sir,” Peavey sputters, eyes wide, a hand at his throat.

Ren leaves him cowering on the flight deck, stalking the length of the gondola to the stern. Since the fighters are not as cleverly disguised as the rest of the ship, he will have to circle around in a wide arch to land on the opposite side of the mountain. It will take him a few hours to reach the stronghold on foot, but he’s willing to spare the time if it means getting in and out with the General before anyone realizes he’s there.

Of course, this strategy is thrown out the window with a resounding bang on the upper deck. The ship groans in protest, its metal frame rattling hard enough in the blast that Ren stumbles to his knees.

He braces one hand against the hull, holding himself steady as a second explosion rocks the _Infinity_. Ren can hear Captain Peavey screaming orders back in the flight deck as one of the pilots drops down the ladder at the back of the ship and ducks through the door leading to the fighter planes. In the opposite direction of all the action, of course.

Ren scrambles to his feet and dashes the length of the gondola to the stern. As he bursts through the door, he catches sight of the pilot unlatching one of the planes from the walkway. Someone else is already crammed into the back of the fighter and points immediately to Ren.

Reaching forward, Ren uses the Force to latch onto the pilot’s throat just as the man is about to step off the walkway. The insurgent’s air mask fogs up with his last laborious breath as he scrabbles at his throat, the tips of his boots scrapping against the wooden planks as Ren lifts him up into the air. Ren can feel the Force flowing through him like liquid fire, pouring outward, yearning to _consume_.

The _Infinity_ is jolted by a third and final explosion. Ren’s foot is close enough to the edge of the walkway that he loses his balance and falls, slamming in the side of one of the other planes. The traitor hits the ground hard enough that the drop probably winds him, but he quickly scrambles into the plane with his comrade. Ren only just regains his footing in time to watch the plane drop, wings extending as the propeller kicks into action. It freefalls for less than a second before the pilot corrects its trajectory and sails off through the air toward the Resistance stronghold.

Ren curses under his breath and unlatches the plane next to him, jumping in. Behind him he can hear the warship’s water system going off to combat the fire. The _Infinity_ simultaneously swerves sharply north, pulling away from the mountains, possibly because Peavey thinks they’re under attack from ground cannons.

Incensed, Ren straps himself in and pulls the lever beside his head. His own plane drops into a freefall before the wings extend and the engine gurgles to life. Ren immediately pulls up and away from the ground, training the nose of his plane toward the slowly shrinking speck in the distance. He can’t let the traitors reach the stronghold first.

It takes him a moment to level out the plane, but then he flicks the switch to activate the guns mounted on either side of the cockpit. He knows there’s a third mounted beneath him, but he doesn’t know how to engage it in this model. All the same, he makes do with what he has, leaning into the throttle to pick up speed before he thumbs down the triggers on his control wheel. His fighter sails smoothly forward, spitting bullets at its retreating twin.

With a satisfying _ding_ , a few of his bullets connect with the body of the other plane. He imagines for a moment that this will be a simple victory, but then the gun mounted on the bottom of his target jerks into action. Ren only just rolls sharply to the left and out of the way to avoid enemy fire. Surprisingly, the traitors then hang left, trying to situate him back within their trail of bullets.

Quickly, Ren pulls up, positioning himself well out of range of the bottom gun. Remarkably, the other pilot noses his plane toward the ground in retaliation, better situating his gunner for a second shot at Ren.

Ren is momentarily stunned by the familiarity of that move. Enough so that a few bullets clip his right wing before he can collect his thoughts enough to react. He squeezes his own trigger and unleashes all unholy hell on the insurgents, but the damage is already done. His plane swerves dangerous to one side. Struggling to keep it steady, he watches as his enemy makes a shaky descent toward the ground, fighting to survive its imminent introduction to the ground.

Ren just knows Poe Dameron is somehow behind the wheel.

Unfortunately, he can’t afford to circle back and finish the man off; he will have to leave the job to gravity. He wrestles to keep his plane steady as the tallest mountain looms into view. At this distance, he can indeed make out the palace built into the ancient stone, as well as something that looks remarkably like a makeshift runway between two guard towers. He’s going too fast to break in time _not_ to hit the stone face at the end of the runway, but that matters little to him. He maneuvers his plane just enough to avoid the meager cannon fire the stronghold sets loose in his direction before he hits the runway with his wheels, yanking the level for the break, trying to ease into the landing as gently as he can.

Keeping one hand on the wheel, he thumbs open the straps across his chest. His plane shudders as it skids across the stone platform. Halfway along the way, he jerks the controller a little the left and the plane careens sharply to one side. He bails then, hitting the ground at a roll, listening to the resulting explosion as his fighter slams into one of the parked planes along the runway.

The momentum of his fall carries him quite a way before he rolls to a halt on his stomach. His body screams out in protest as he struggles back to his feet, but he has no problem silencing the sensation as he unclasps his lightsaber from his belt. Predictably, men and women are already flooding out onto the runway from a nearby door, although there are fewer of him than he anticipated. Possibly because he caught them completely unawares, although he has a feeling the brunt of the Resistance’s forces might presently be elsewhere, most likely wherever Vice Admiral Manex is due to deliver the other airships.

Ren has but a moment to centre himself before they open fire. He shields himself from the brunt of their attack with the Force, walking calmly forward, hand at the ready on his sword. As soon as the Resistance members pause to reload, he drops the shield and grabs the nearest man with the Force, crushing his heart. In the precious moment between life and death, Ren also utilizes the man as a battering ram, tossing him into two of his comrades. He then ignites his lightsaber and falls upon the rest, hacking first at one woman and then cutting a second clean in half. When one of the last men standing makes a break for the door, Ren reaches out to crush his windpipe with nothing more than a fleeting thought.

As he steps over the convulsing form of his final victim, he reaches out telepathically for other signs of life. He can tell there are more soldiers racing up the stairs to the runway, hoping to take chase after the _Infinity_. Ren spares the dirigible a glance before he opens the door and descends into the base. The airship is but a flaming speck on the horizon, still relativity high above the ground, making a mad dash back to the coast.

He encounters two men on the stairwell and cuts each of them down. Both immediately recognize him for the danger that he is, although they are uncertain of his reason for being there. As Ren stumbles across other members of the Resistance during his hunt through the enemy base, he realizes most assume he’s there to capture General Leia Organa, that Ren’s unexpected attack is something of a ‘ _second wave’_. This leads him to believe General Hux had initially attacked the base for this exact purpose, but further perusal into the minds he encounters informs Ren that his mother is no longer there. She left days ago, fleeing somewhere farther north.

Of General Hux, no information is immediately forthcoming. Ren stalks the whitewashed halls, searching for the prison cells. It isn’t until he corners three Resistance members in one of the radio rooms that he gets so much as a clue to Hux’s whereabouts. He’s in the process of choking one of the women when a small explosion rattles the room, dust falling from the ceiling, a porcelain cup rolling off the corner of a computer console to fall to its demise on the floor. Through a fog of fear, the woman thinks about how ‘ _that blasted prisoner’_ must be _‘at it again’_.

Finally finding what he was searching for, Ren probes her memory of the layout of the base. According to what she knows, all prisoners are housed just two floors up.

As soon as the light fades from her eyes, Ren steps up to the computer console and tries to boot it up, hoping to collect something of value before he returns to the Capital. Of course, someone hit the kill switch before he made it down here. The computer flickers to life for only a moment before it begins spewing smoke. Irritated, Ren turns his back to the resulting fire and makes his way to the General.

As advertised, the prison is only two floors up, although the cells currently house only a handful of bedraggled men and woman, an unsavoury lot of what Ren assumes to be slave dealers caught wandering too close to the Resistance base. However, in the second last cell to the right, he finds a dead man wearing a First Order uniform, having recently passed from an untreated illness. The cell next to his is empty. But only because the door has been blown completely off its hinges.

Ren takes a cursory glance inside the empty cell. There’s a bed in one corner and bucket beside it. Up against the adjacent wall is a small mirror, beneath which sits a wash basin and a small bowl for shaving cream.

He takes a moment to study the faint footprints in the dust on the floor. Whoever was in here blew open the cell, stepped aside to peek at his dead comrade, and then booked it toward the door at the end of the corridor.

Ren ignores the men and woman hollering at him for their freedom as he bursts through the door and into what appears to be a storage hall. He immediately spots a young man standing beside yet another door at, a large grey coat thrown over one of his arms and a supplies satchel hanging over the opposite shoulder. His copper hair and cold stare is a dead giveaway to his identity.

But before Ren can speak, Hux quickly ducks through the door and out of sight.

Surprised, Ren sprints the length of the storage hall and takes off after him, clipping his lightsaber back to his waist. Hux is halfway down the next corridor before Ren pulls him up short with the Force, tugging had on his satchel. Hux is jerk to a halt so suddenly, he almost loses his footing.

“ _General Hux_!” he barks.

Hux turns around sharply, frowning. Ren realizes now that there are bruises around the man’s eyes and a long line of stitches across his left brow. Obviously, he was recently concussed and looks a little worse for wear because of it.

Exhausted as he appears, Hux’s voice rings loud and clear in the corridor. “Who are you?” he demands.

 _“Lord Kylo Ren,”_ he explains, stepping forward. Hux eyes his mask warily but makes no move to run. _“I was sent on behalf of Emperor Snoke.”_

The General’s mind is racing. Hux has heard of him, that much is clear, but he’s still suspicious, searching for some morsel of information at the back of his brain that he can use to verify Ren’s claim.

Ren can only think of one thing to put the man’s mind at ease. He pulls the small copper box out of the concealed pocket in his tunic and tosses it to Hux. The General catches it and begins fiddling with one of the corners as Ren approaches. Oddly enough, Ren senses confusion from the man more than anything, followed by a sharp spike of terror as the box clicks open. Hux chucks it through the nearest doorway before Ren can figure out why the General is so alarmed by his own invention.

The resulting explosion sends Ren’s own mind reeling. In fact, he’s not consciously aware of the explosion itself, only returning to full awareness once he’s flat on the floor, half buried under the stone debris from the collapsed wall of the adjacent room. He shoves the largest chucks of it off with the Force and rises back to his feet, arms and legs crying out in protest. A few feet in front of him, Hux pulls himself out of a similar mountain of debris, albeit with a little more trouble. The cut above his eye bleeds anew. He coughs up dust as he tries to get his bearings, wasting barely a moment before he takes off down the corridor again.

Ren doesn’t understand what just happened, only that Brendol Hux made a grievous error in trying to use _him_ to pull off an assassination attempt against his own flesh and blood. Ren quietly seethes as he hears a chorus of voices behind him, having just enough time to unclasp his lightsaber and pivot sharply on his heel before rebel scum flood into the corridor.

He makes quick work of them, but Hux is already long gone. Ren tracks his confused path, a light smattering of blood, to an emergency exit one floor down. The large metal door is pushed partway open against a mound of snow. Hux’s footprints over the snow are deep, almost knee high, but they only last ten or so feet before they’re replaced with a large wide trail running down the slope of the mountain. Ren assumes the man grabbed something he could slide on before he left the base.

Ren stares down the slope, eyes scanning the tree line two hundred yards away. He can’t see the man, but injured as he is and in hostile territory, Ren knows Hux can’t be too far off.

~***~

Ren is, of course, absolutely correct.

He catches sight of Hux again within the hour, making his way slowly but steadily through the forest. He’s donned the grey coat and gloves, head wrapped up in a scarf, and is no longer trailing blood. It’s apparent he stopped long enough in his trek to tend to whatever wounds he acquired in the blast, giving Ren time to close the distance between them.

 Ren decides to allow him his space. For now. A glance at the map Mitaka gave him indicates Hux is on the right track for the coast, so there’s no point in frightening the man now and delaying their journey. He’ll wait until the General stops for the night before he makes himself known to him.

In the meantime, Ren hangs back about fifty or yards, winding his way quietly through the trees as he tries to get a better read on the man. He hangs back far enough that Hux’s thoughts waver in and out of focus in an unusual way, most of them pertaining to his current supplies and health. Hux has water and food and other amenities in his satchel, so he has little to fear in that department, but Hux stops twice to relieve himself and is alarmed by the amount of blood in his urine. His lower back aches fiercely. Those two nuisances combined cause him genuine concern for the state of his kidneys, but not enough to slow his gait. He soldiers onward in something of a foul mood, thinking about the copper box and his father and his missing uniform.

Over the course of the afternoon, Hux’s mind sticks to the same vein of thought. He’s constantly stopping to stare up at the sky and the receding mountaintops behind him, attuning himself to his mental map. His course matches remarkably well with the one Ren plots out on the map, suggesting he’s familiar with waging war by foot in this land.

As the day draws to a close, Hux finally pulls up short in a small clearing. He cuts down branches and collects leaves from the surrounding trees, slipping off his glove to check how damp his potential tinder is. Then he makes a small ring of rocks on a pile of dirt, sets up a tepee of kindling, and rummages around in his satchel for a box of matches. He gets a fire started before too long and settles down on a log to warm himself. He pulls out a protein bar as his supper.

Ren hangs back still, slipping out the narrow pouch of water from under his tunic for a sip. He initially intended to steal more supplies from the Resistance base before heading out but having Hux bolt on him like that nixed that idea. He’ll wait until the man nods off to sleep before Ren joins him to better explain the situation. Either Hux will believe him and they will continue onward undeterred, or else Ren will subdue him. It matters little to him how Hux chooses to proceed.

After a short while, he begins to wonder what Hux is thinking as he gazes into the dancing flames. The man is silent and still for quite some time before he rises from his seat and wanders into the darkness of the surrounding forest, no doubt still concerned about his kidneys.

Ren frowns in confusion. Hux’s mind is suddenly closed to him. Already, Ren’s had such trouble zoning in on the man today, but this mental wall is an unwelcome surprise.

Ren tries to focus, shifting slightly from his position in the undergrowth. His thighs burn from the strain, but he hardly notices. Years of training have taught him to tune out the worst of his mortal needs and ailments. Pain is but a distraction.

But blocking out so much more than his internal mechanisms is his second surprise of the evening. He feels almost foolish for missing the hissing _thing_ that scampers down the tree trunk beside him, clinging to the bark, head angled toward the ground. It tilts its face back to stare at him, four black eyes blinking sluggishly as it darts its forked tongue out between its tiny fangs.

Ren recoils in shock. The blue reptilian creature hisses again, the two long strips of fur along its back flaring up aggressively. He had no idea ysalamiri could survive this far north.

As far as ysalamiri go, this one is relatively small. The Force-neutral bubble it generates shouldn’t extend too far, but Ren realizes the forest must be crawling with them considering the difficulties he’s been having with his powers. If enough became aware of his presence, they could feed off of each other’s auras and block out his abilities for several yards. He needs to act quickly.

Ren takes a moment to contemplate between hacking it in half with his saber or grabbing it around the throat to snap its neck when he hears a second hiss behind him, this one deeper. Ren turns sharply to face the second ysalamiri.

This one is an incredulous six feet long, crouched low on the ground, its hackles similarly raised in warning.

It’s also wearing a harness. Shockingly

Astonishingly, the first attack, when it comes, is not initiated by either ysalamiri. Instead, a dark figure in the bush to his left lunges for him, spear raised. Ren dances deftly out of range, swatting the spear aside with his right arm. Unfortunately, not hard enough to disarm his opponent, although it certainly unbalances the man. 

Ren makes a grab for the lightsaber at his waist at relatively the same moment that the ysalamiri on the tree decides to strike. It collides with his back as it lunges off the trunk, curling its head around his torso to latch its teeth into his wrist. Pain lances up his arm. He pivots sharply and successfully dislodges it, but the second ysalamiri, having patiently waited for an opening, darts forward to sink its fang into his leg. It braces its back legs into the snow as it struggles to whip its head from side to side, tearing into the meat of his calf.

Ren grabs his lightsaber.

Pain blossoms in his lungs.

It takes him a second to recognize the three darts protruding from his chest, needles wedged firmly between his ribs. It feels as though he’s breathing fire on his next inhale, although the one after that feels like nothing at all. His vision swims. He’s only vaguely away of his first assailant shouting at the larger ysalamiri in a foreign tongue before the beast unclamps its jaw from Ren’s leg and he collapses to the forest floor.

The last thing he sees before the poison pulls him under are two dark figures hovering over him and the soft rattle of chains as they kneel down to bind him.

~***~

Ren wakes to the sensation of a cold wind blowing through his hair.

He comes to with his wrists and ankles each individually chained together, lying on a plank of wood, covered with a blanket. His mask and his belt have been removed. The sky above him is a brilliant blue, dotted with puffy white clouds that pass overhead with a careless mien. Given the gentle bump and sway of his body, he assumes he’s been loaded onto some kind of cart.

Once he manages to blink the sleep from his eyes, he realizes this is true. He’s been tucked into one corner of an open wagon, the large ysalamiri lying beside him. Its beady black eyes watch him carefully. As soon as he shifts his weight, it hisses softly at him.

It’s the largest creature he’s ever seen and easily one of the ugliest. He would love for nothing more than to run it through with his lightsaber, but his current unarmed state and the proximity of its jaws to his face give him reason to consider his next plan of action carefully before lashing out. Besides, there’s a woman riding a horse behind the wagon and her piercing eyes are also trained on him. There’s nothing he can do in this position that she won’t notice.

There’s a bow and quiver strapped to her back and a blow dart pipe against her thigh. Ren realizes she’s probably the one who shot him.

“ _Na twon kimenhe magi_?” she asks.

“I don’t speak your language,” he replies briskly.

“But you speak,” she continues, voice heavily accented. She is pale and fair-haired and her face is marred with scars. “You are a magi?”

‘Magi’ is term he’s encountered before in the desert. It’s a diminutive name for Force-users.

He says nothing.

“Speak,” she compels him, laughing. She gestures vaguely to a small sack by his feet. “You have a magi’s weapon and you fear the ysalamiri. You should fetch a good price.”

Still, he says nothing.

She scowls a little, then pats the small dagger tucked into her belt. “ _Speak_ , magi.”

It’s the last thing she ever says.

Lying as he is, flat on his back, Ren doesn’t notice General Hux until the man is upon her. There’s the soft sound of dirt turning underfoot, of a person running lightly across the road, before Hux hops onto the back of the woman’s horse. Her eyes widen at the jarring sensation of her mount stopping suddenly and a body colliding with her back, but a leather strap is looped around her throat before she can make so much as a sound. The horse tosses its head in protest of the added weight but simply stands there as Hux quietly strangles its rider.

Ren wants to crane his head to continue watching the spectacle, but the ysalamiri hisses at him again in warning. It must have poor hearing if it didn’t catch her final gasp. Ren finds that utterly amusing.

For a short while, Ren can’t see much of anything over the lip of his blanket, hoping Hux was able to keep the upper hand. Eventually, this proves to be the case when Hux quietly rides up alongside the wagon, sans the woman, and glances briefly down at the ysalamiri. Remarkably, the creature doesn’t realize anything is amiss until Hux rides a little further up and hops up beside the other slaver on the wagon bench. The man shouts out in alarm as Hux gouges at him with the blade in his right hand.

The ysalamiri jumps into action then, trying to dart over the back of the bench to intercept Hux, but this is just the opening Ren was looking for. He rolls onto the ysalamiri’s back and hooks the chain between his wrists around its throat. It thrashes wildly beneath him as he tightens his hold, straining to prevent it from turning over. In his peripheral vision he can still see Hux stabbing at the other slaver a second time, giving the man a hearty shove so that he slips off his seat and under the wagon, his gurgles of agony cut short as he’s run over by the wheels.

The ysalamiri thrashes for only a while longer. Ren holds on until he knows it’s dead, when he can feel the Force returning to him. All at once, he feels a pulse from the smaller lifeforms in the surrounding forest and the second slaver as he draws his last shuddering breath. He’s acutely aware of Hux too, still sitting at the front, head bowed forward and heaving before he grabs the reins and yanks the horse drawing the wagon to a halt. Hux’s mind is in a world of pain, his head and back screaming in agony.

Ren can help him with that once they’re somewhere safe. For now, he takes this opportunity to roll off the ysalamiri and search through the bag at the end of the wagon. It’s filled with regular supplies, as well as his own equipment. He tears out his belt and helmet, relieved to find his lightsaber still in one piece.

Something lands with a soft thud on the blanket beside him. Ren glances up at Hux before staring down at what appears to be the key to his shackles.

He grabs the key and makes quick work of the chains, watching Hux carefully. The General is rummaging through a small sack on the bench beside him, breaths evening out, although he’s still obviously in pain.

With an exasperated sigh, Hux finally glances back at Ren and says, “Do you mind?”

Ren tosses the chains at the dead ysalamiri with no small amount of satisfaction. Then he grabs his belt and wraps it around his waist. “Do I mind what?”

“Leaving me to my thoughts,” Hux mutters, gesturing vaguely to his head. “You’ve been prying since we left the base. Is it too much to ask for a moment’s peace?”

Baffled, Ren’s hands slow as he closes the clasp on his belt. “Are you Force-sensitive?”

“Not at all,” Hux replies, resuming his looting of the slaver’s things. He finds an extra canteen and clips it to the strap of his satchel. “The Emperor scrutinizes my thoughts often enough that I can tell when someone’s been inside my head. Although, he does it with certainly more finesse than you.”

That confession brings Ren to a somewhat disturbing revelation: that Hux often has an audience with Snoke, more than any Force-null reasonably should. It speaks of the General’s importance in a way that Ren is not entirely comfortable with.

Regardless, he has to owe it to the man for pulling off this little rescue operation in his current condition. Ren knows he would’ve figured out a way of liberating himself eventually, but Hux’s efforts have saved them precious time. A fact which, curiously, brings him to his next question: “Why did you help me?”

Hux pulls out something that looks like a flask of alcohol from the slaver’s bag, contemplates it for a long moment, and then stuffs it back where it belongs. “You had ample opportunity to kill me in the forest. But you didn’t. And given the dearth of Force-users in the world, I think I can believe your claim of being Kylo Ren, although I still don’t understand why you didn’t warn me about the bomb.”

“Your father asked me to deliver it to you. I didn’t realize it was a bomb.”

Hux snorts derisively at him and says no more.

The General continues to poach supplies off the dead slavers while Ren slips on his helmet and hops off the back of the wagon. The first horse is long gone, although its companion is still hooked up to the wagon. Ren cuts it loose and leads it back to Hux, knowing the man won’t make it far on foot. But the General waves him off.

“The horses are trained to return to their home camp,” Hux sighs, “We’ll be fighting to redirect it the whole trip.”

Irritated, Ren allows the reins to slip from his grasp. Sure enough, the horse trots down the road and disappears around the upcoming bend with an air of deliberation.

 _“I can heal you,”_ Ren offers, taking a step back to give Hux space as he jumps down off the wagon bench. The man hisses softly between his teeth and braces his hands against his hips, leaning gently backward. There’s a trail of blood all down the front of his shirt from the second slaver, a stark contrast to his pale skin. _“But not here. At one of the safehouses.”_

“I’m not up to date on our current supplies caches,” Hux sighs, slowly leaning forward now. He looks genuinely surprised when Ren produces his map and hands it over.

Hux studies it for a moment and then turns to show Ren. He points to a spot _far_ from their last location.

The slavers took him for quite the detour.

“The text indicates there’s a safehouse about half a day’s journey from here,” Hux explains, tapping his finger against a small symbol farther north than Ren feels comfortable trekking.

 _“We only have three and a half days to reach Varn’s Point before the Finalizer leaves,”_ Ren hisses, his voice pitched lower with the vocoder of his mask. _“I don’t know how long it will take your people return from the next leg of their journey.”_

“The _Finalizer_ is scheduled to join the assault on a second stronghold in the west,” Hux explains. “If all goes according to plan, it will be about a week before anyone circles back for us.” He smiles then, but it’s such a thin-lipped and smug little thing, Ren assumes smiling is very much a foreign expression on the General’s face. “We have time enough to reach the coast if we ride the river.”

Hux moves his finger to the ‘Lansa River’ just a little farther north of the safehouse. “The slavers use steam barges to travel to the coast. If we can steal one, that will cut our journey down to roughly two days.”

It’s not a bad strategy, all things considered, but Ren still has his reservations. _“Do the slavers often utilize the ysalamiri_?”

“They’re fierce enough creatures, so why not?” Hux’s lips twist with cruel amusement. “Welcome to mortality, Lord Ren.”

With a sharp snap of his wrists, Hux folds up the map and hands it back to Ren.

Then he climbs back into the forest surrounding the road with more energy than someone in his condition should possess.

~***~

The snow lets up the farther they hike from the Davarn Mountains, but the deciduous trees are still dark and barren. Hux explains that it’s approximately autumn now in this region, that winter is not too far off. Once the true cold hits, the land will be perpetually overcast and stormy, that being the main reason so few people settle here. Not many can withstand the violent weather.

 _“Why did you come here?”_ Ren asks, just as the sky begins to darken overhead. According to the map, they’re not far off from the safehouse. _“Why leave the Finalizer and travel inland if this place holds so little interest to the First Order?”_

“The mountains are rich in resources,” Hux replies, arms folded across his chest, gloved hands tucked up against his torso. A chill breeze ruffles his copper hair, a puff of white escaping pale lips. Ren can tell the man’s health is deteriorating despite his rigid silence on the matter. “And we had intel that General Leia Organa was holed up somewhere in the region. The Emperor sent me to capture her personally.”

Ren still struggles to talk about his mother, but so few people know about their relationship. He silently hopes Hux was not made privy to any kind of information pertaining to his upbringing. _“I’m surprised she didn’t drag you along with her when she fled. You’re the only person the Resistance could have used as a plausible bargaining chip.”_

“She didn’t know who I was,” Hux explains, which fits the narrative Ren’s already developed inside his mind. The fact that none of the Resistance members knew they had a General of the First Order in their midst was a dead giveaway that something was amiss. “I was rendered unconscious when the _Primacy_ was shot down. I woke up alone in my cell, the uninjured prisoners having already been shuttled off with the General to another location. I can only assume someone had the wherewithal to remove my uniform immediately after the crash to protect my identity.”

That would explain the lack of First Order prisoners when Ren arrived, aside from the man who perished in his cell. It also explained why Hux was still wearing his regulation boots, jodhpurs, and white dress shirt, but was lacking anything that would reveal his rank, such as his tunic. The very coat he wore now had been stolen from the supplies hall, a little large for his frame but made of thick, heavy material. It likely belonged to one of the captured slavers.

Their conversation lulls for a short while. The sky darkens further at an alarming rate, but then Ren spots it, a small wooden hut up ahead. It’s derelict and tilted precariously to one side, but at least the glass windows are still intact, having been partially protected by the hut’s wooden shutters. It obviously isn’t the most glorious shelter Ren has ever seen, but it still beats freezing to death out in the open.

Hux reaches the door first, digging around in his bag for something that looks like a small metal pick. He’s only hunched over the lock for a minute before it springs open. He swings the door inward to reveal a quaint little space containing a table, bed, and fireplace. He immediately kicks up the circular rug in the centre of the room as he enters, crouching down over a second lock, fiddling it open to reveal stored food, empty bottles for water, and medical supplies.

Pulling things out of the secret cache, Hux pauses to toss Ren a box of matches. “Start a fire for us, would you?”

And so Ren does, ducking back outside to collect a few twigs for tinder before he kneels before the fireplace and tries to set fire to the wood already perched behind the rusted grill. He gets it going before too long, stepping aside so that Hux can hang two pots of water on the metal pole before the hearth. Hux goes back outside to collect snow in yet another pot and sets this close to the fire, allowing it to melt naturally. Then he closes the door to the floor cache, throws the rug back into place, and settles down at the table in the corner.

Tired, but still alert, Ren removes his helmet and places it on the mantle over the hearth. Once the water in one of the pots begins to boil, he unwraps a foil of dried meats and herbs and drops it inside. The aroma from the bubbling broth is heavenly. He stirs at the dark concoction with a metal spoon as hunger gnaws away at his stomach.

As he waits for meat in the broth to rehydrate, he grabs a protein bar from the small pile of rations Hux laid out on the table and munches on it as he watches Hux work. The General had taken a damp cloth to wet his face and was finishing up on a quick shave with a small blade, using the mirror nailed to the wall to guide him. Ren can tell the General is a man of habit, but he seemed to be stalling for some reason, fear prickling at the back of his mind. It isn’t overwhelming, but it’s obvious he’s bracing himself for something unpleasant.

“I thought I told you to stop that,” Hux mutters as he finally lowers his blade. He wipes his jaw once more with the damp cloth and inspects his handiwork before his eyes flicker to Ren’s reflection in the mirror.

“You’re projecting your emotions,” Ren counters after he polishes off the bar. He turns away from Hux as he removes his surcoat, belt, gloves, and tunic, tossing his clothes over the other chair at the table. His feet ache, but he’s still too cold to remove his boots. “You’re in pain.”

He turns back around to see Hux scowling, but not at him. The man rises from his seat when the other pot of water begins to boil, collecting it with a dry cloth before depositing it on the table. Ren takes a seat on the bed as Hux unbuttons his dress shirt.

Ren knows he shouldn’t watch, but he hardly feels compelled to look away. Unique as his copper hair and piercing green eyes are, it’s the General’s lean figure that seals Ren’s attention on him for the moment. He’s got muscle, but too little fat or substance to add much in the way of definition; the jut of his hipbones is prominent, but not enough to suggest emaciation. He’s just healthy and thin—and riddled with a hundred tiny cuts where he was struck by debris from the wall. The brunt of the damage is slowly revealed to Ren as Hux uncoils the medicinal tape wrapped tightly around his torso.

Hux tosses his shirt over his chair and then uses another spoon to scoop out a scalpel and set of metal tongues from the bottom of the pot. Ren hadn’t even realized he dropped them in there in the first place. He watches quietly from his place on the bed as Hux pulls stone chips from his deeper wounds, wincing with each one. Gradually, Ren’s focus shifts to the two leather armlets circling each of the General’s forearms from wrist to elbow. On the underside of one, he catches a glimpse of some metal mechanism, which reminds him immediately of the concealed blade on Captain Phasma’s arm. He can only assume these odd contraptions are the same kind of weapon, small as they are in comparison to the Captain’s.

Hux glances up at him and catches him staring. “How’s the broth?”

Ren lets his gaze linger a moment longer before he rises to his feet and takes the second pot off the fire, pausing to hang the third one up before he grabs two cups off the table and pours out a bit of broth for each of them. Ren blows on his while Hux lets his sit on the table to cool, still pulling small shards from his wounds. Once he finishes up with one cut, he smears ointment over it and then moves onto the next almost mechanically. Ren knows the General is thinking of a large black bruise that extends over his right side and up across his clavicle, an ugly sort of thing that will no doubt take weeks to heal.

“I can help with those,” Ren says, gesturing to the bruise. He circles behind Hux and notices the blue-green bruises on his back, these a little older, no doubt the result of the _Primacy’s_ crash. They sit right above his kidneys “These too.”

“So you say,” Hux murmurs, absorbed in his work. His back goes rigid when Ren brushes his fingertips down the General’s spine. He twists around to grab Ren by the wrist. “Do you _mind_?”

“Too cold?” Ren inquires, searching Hux’s eyes for signs of dismissal, wondering how adverse the General would be to letting Ren bed him.

Ren would blame his forwardness on the fact that it’s nearly been a year since he’s lain with anyone, but in truth he’s always been blunt in just about every aspect of his life. It’s a kind of retaliation against the celibate life he lived under his uncle’s tutelage, having denied himself of almost every human desire until he broke away to join Snoke. He still refrains from absolute debauchery most of the time, but he does so love to indulge when the opportunity presents itself, such as now, with a man of almost equal status.

He dips quickly past the surface of Hux’s mind for any indication that the General can be persuaded. He’s greeted with a fleeting thought: of Hux’s realization that Ren is not a part of his chain of command.

Ren lifts his cup to his mouth to sip at his broth. But mostly to hide his smile.

Hux knows that if they fucked, it wouldn’t be considered fraternization.

Hux releases his wrist after a beat and Ren drops his hand. As he returns to the bed, he says, “But if you enjoy pissing blood, who am I to deprive you of your fun?”

“Of course I don’t,” Hux snaps, resuming his work. “Let me finish this and then we’ll see what your exotic powers can do, _magi_.”

Ren sniffles irritably at the diminutive term and polishes off his broth. He’s finally warm enough to remove his boots, but he keeps his undershirt and trousers on, still feeling the nip of cold against the back of his neck. He entertains himself by watching the firelight dance off Hux’s copper hair.

Eventually, Hux takes a new roll of medicinal tape and winds it around his chest. Then he turns to Ren and says, “What now?”

“Take off your boots and sit in front of the fire,” he instructs, rising to his feet. He takes a moment to warm his hands over the fire, waiting for Hux to situate himself in the middle of the rug, legs crossed indian style, before settling down behind him.

Ren bends his knees and spreads his legs on either side of the General. Hux tenses, but Ren ignores this as he presses his warm palms against Hux’s lower back. The soft, sharp inhalation between Hux’s lips is tantalizing, but Ren forces himself to focus. Luke taught him this trick a long time ago but had only instructed him on how to help his own body heal. However, under Snoke’s instruction, Ren’s long since learned how to turn many of Luke’s old tricks outward.

Focusing, he slips seamlessly down below Hux’s aura, feeling every heartbeat, every twitch, every hitch of breath like an electric current beneath his fingertips. He reroutes blood, fragments dying cells, and generally facilitates the body’s natural healing factors. Hux’s lower back arches as he feels the warmth spreading upward and forward, bleeding into his stomach and chest, chasing away all his little aches and pains. It’s fortuitous that they are both completely calm, otherwise this exercise might not have worked.

After a while, he presses firmly down against Hux’s skin to test the relative sensitivity of his muscles, skimming the surface of Hux’s mind for signs of pain. Satisfied to find nothing of the sort, he slowly slides his hands down and around Hux’s naked hips, splaying his fingers out against the front of the other man’s stomach. Hux’s mind is muddy with warmth, marveling at how good this actually feels. But he’s still ultimately aware when Ren better situates his left hand against his navel, bracing Hux as he draws his other hand farther down, fiddling with the button on his jodhpurs.

Hux covers each of Ren’s hands with his own and tuts at him under his breath. “You’re not really doing this just to rope me into some cultish sex ritual, are you?”

“No,” Ren replies, his voice a deep rumble as he presses his lips against the back of Hux’s neck. The General’s skin is covered with a thin sheen of sweat, either from the fire or the heat of arousal now pooling in his loins.  “We’ll call it compensation. For services rendered.”

Hux slowly relinquishes his hold on the hand trying to open his jodhpurs, arching against Ren, reaching back to card his hand through Ren’s hair. “In case you forgot,” he whispers, voice tight with desire, “I saved you this morning.”

“Then consider this a reward.” Ren kisses the long line of his neck, teasing down the zipper on Hux’s trousers. “For both of us.”

Hux’s breath hitches again, this time for a different reason altogether. Ren slips his hand inside and cups the General’s half-hard cock, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“…How do you want to do this?” Hux finally asks.

“On the bed.”

He extracts his hand and pulls back from the enticing heat of Hux’s body. Hux snorts at his vaguery of his answer but follows his lead. Ren swipes a small vial of ointment off the table as Hux takes a seat on the edge of the bed, pulling down his trousers and underclothes slowly, revealing long, pale legs only marginally bruised from his ordeal in the mountains.

Ren admires him quietly for a moment, oddly taken by his confidence. Usually, he can’t stand arrogance, but the General has an ease about him that seems well-earned, as is evident of his efforts earlier today. The man looks utterly relaxed as he lies back on the bed, lying his head to rest on the pillow, bright eyes studying Ren in return.

Ren wonders what the man sees in him. He’s fought under Snoke’s banner for years now, but he pledged himself to the Emperor when he was so young. He’s still young, try as he might to deny it. But sometimes he tries too hard. And occasionally it shows.

If Hux has any reservations about him though, he doesn’t voice them. Instead, as soon as Ren sits down on the mattress beside his hip, Hux reaches over with one hand to tug the drawstring knots at the front of Ren’s trousers loose. Ren braces one arm on the pillow beside Hux’s head and leans forward to kiss his soft red mouth, hardening as Hux unweaves the intricate braid, struggling to pull him free.

“Just this once,” Hux gasps against his lips. “You’re returning to the Saloria after this, aren’t you?”

Confusion causes Ren to pull back slightly, although it doesn’t stop him completely. He drops the vial on the bed beside them in favor of tugging his pants open following Hux’s single-handed failed attempt. “How much do you know about me?” he asks.

“Everything,” Hux replies, a strange glint in his eyes. “After all, you’re his favorite.”

There’s a little edge to that last word that could almost be mistaken for jealousy, but, oddly, that amuses Ren more than anything else.

A coy smile tugs at the corner of Ren’s mouth as he finally pulls himself free. Cool fingers immediately wrap around him, Hux glancing down to evaluate what he has to work with. When Hux returns his gaze without any indication as to whether he’s disappointed or impressed, Ren knows in some small way that the man is actually pleased with what he sees.

“Any objections?” Ren asks. With a bit of maneuvering, he kneels between Hux’s lovely legs and grabs the vial again. Their current position should make his intentions abundantly clear.

“No,” Hux sighs, trying to adjust the old pillow under his head. “If you show me how clever your tongue can be without words, I would certainly appreciate it.”

Ren has no problem with that, although its been a while since he’s used his mouth to get someone off. He’s grown accustomed to making demands in the bedroom without reciprocating much in return, but he knows what he likes and the basics are still rattling around at the back of his mind. So once he’s slicked up his fingers and is pressing the first one in, he wraps his free hand around the base of Hux and ducks his head to take him in.

Hux makes a beautifully breathy noise as Ren sucks him. It’s a base act, but it’s worth the effort to see Hux’s stomach tremble. His thighs twitch as Ren crooks his finger, stroking him from the inside as he lavishes him with his tongue. Hux appears to be struggling over whether or not he should touch Ren in return, but impulse finally wins out when Ren slips a second finger inside. He begins carding his hand through Ren’s hair, peculiarly gentle. It’s strange, but nice.

Inevitably, two fingers become three, at which point Hux tugs insistently at Ren’s hair. Ren pulls his mouth off Hux’s cock and immediately presses his face against his companion’s left thigh. He sucks at the skin there, enjoying the soft salty taste of sweat.

“This is going to end soon if you’re not careful,” Hux warns, voice strained, rubbing his eyes.

Ren sits up and pulls his fingers free, pouring more oil from the vial into his hand to slick himself up. Once Hux is able to unwind himself from his high-strung place, he glances down at Ren, gazing first at his manhood and then drawing his gaze upward until they are simply staring one another in the eye.

Ren doesn’t know what Hux is thinking. He so desperately wants to pry.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he props the General’s hips up on his knees and rocks his hips forward, sinking in. Hux’s eyes flutter closed. The look on his face is all Ren needs to go by.

Ren edges his way deeper. Hux feels good. Hot. Tight. It’s the usual affair, but the way he rolls his pelvis in return is something pleasantly unique. Ren curls his hands around those delightful hips, but he doesn’t restrict his partner’s motion, not when Hux already knows how to move so well. They pick up a steady rhythm together. Ren leans slightly forward; Hux tucks his knees up against Ren’s hips. Idly, Ren thinks of how much better Hux is than any of the common whores he’s had before.

“What are you thinking?” Hux breathes, his timing impeccable.

“You’re beautiful,” Kylo gasps. The lie is an automatic response, although, technically, it’s not _wholly_ a lie. Ren wouldn’t be fucking Hux if he didn’t like the look of him, but it’s something previous partners needed to hear from Ren and so the statement falls smoothly from his lips without conscious thought.

Hux is remarkably quick to pick up on that. He slaps Ren, though not terribly hard. More so to snap him out of his haze. “Let’s try that again,” he mutters, but he keeps rolling his hips, clearly enjoying himself too much to let Ren ruin his mood. The way he moves against Ren is truly maddening. “What are you really thinking?”

Ren gives his answer careful consideration before settling on the truth: “You preform so much better than a whore.”

Hux tries to slap him again, but Ren won’t be fooled with the same trick twice. He catches Hux’s wrist around the leather armlet before his hand can connect with Ren’s face and then pins it down to the pillow beside Hux’s head. The outburst interrupts their rhythm, but Ren simply readjusts his position, leaning far enough forward that he can grab the wooden headboard of this godawful bed with his other hand. He snaps his hips relentlessly, driving the air out of Hux with each thrust.

Hux doesn’t try to free his wrist. Instead, he stares up at Ren with something like anger and excitement shining in his eyes, reaching down with his other hand to stroke himself off.

Neither one of them says anything beyond that point, simply heaving, chasing their pleasure. Ren skims Hux’s mind briefly again, enough to see the blazing whiteness that proceeds the General’s orgasm. He spasms around Ren, thighs shaking, still rolling his hips to edge Ren on. Ren stares down into his bright eyes and lets the sensation take him, feels it burning up the length of his spine as he lets it all go.

Ren’s arm trembles as he spirals down from his high, but he keeps it braced against the headboard, giving Hux space to breathe and wriggle back against the pillows. Ren slips free. He’s hot and sweaty, but already the faint chill of the room is clinging to his ribs again.

Finally, Ren collapses onto the bed beside Hux. They’ve made quite the mess of both themselves and the bedsheets, but Ren could honestly care less about whoever needs to use this safehouse next. He’ll never wander this way again and he has serious doubts Hux plans on making a repeat visit himself.

Hux takes a moment to collect himself before he miraculously rises from the bed. He grabs his coat off the back of the chair and hangs it over his shoulders like a cape to keep the chill at bay. Then he dips a cloth into the warm pot of water and begins cleaning himself. He tosses a second wet cloth to Ren so that he can do the same.

Ren would much rather lie there and bask in the glow of a good fuck, but he pushes himself up. He cleans himself. Drags the motheaten blanket off the bed and tosses it in the corner. There’s a second one underneath, this one clean enough that he feels comfortable climbing under it, relaxing in the warmth Hux left behind as the General goes about meticulously scrubbing himself down from head to toe. It’s a strange compulsion, but Ren can hardly fault him for it. It affords him the opportunity to appreciate the General’s lean figure at a distance, his own personal show.

Hux is wonderfully undeterred by his audience. He acts as though Ren isn’t there, tossing his cloth on top of the ruined blanket before he grabs his satchel and sits down before the fire, his coat still hanging off his naked shoulders. Ren watches quietly as Hux pulls a pistol and a small metal pin from his bag. The man goes about fiddling with one of the golden gears, gently probing at some unseen mechanism tucked under the trigger.

“Is it broken?” Ren inquires, curious despite himself. He wonders why Hux didn’t use it earlier.

“Not beyond repair,” the man murmurs. “However, I must advise you against trying to use it yourself.”

Ren snorts. He doesn’t need to use firearms when he isn’t airborne.

Hux glances up at him briefly, that strange _something_ glinting in his eyes again. “I’ll take first watch,” he says before resuming his work.

Ren can go days without sleep, but as warm and satiated as he is, he has no qualms about succumbing to his weariness. He closes his eyes and lets his mind drift, listening to the gentle crackle of wood splintering in the fireplace.

~***~

Hux wakes him halfway through the night so that he can catch a little shuteye before they continue on their journey. He doesn’t crawl under the quilt, but instead lies on top of it, fully clothed, using his coat as a makeshift blanket. Once he finds a comfortable position, he’s dead to the world. Ren can hardly hear him breathing as he sleeps.

To distract himself, Ren packs their newfound supplies into Hux’s satchel, collecting dried food for the trip. Hux had boiled more water in the night and poured it into two bottles. Ren stuffs them in as well. He deposits everything else in the hidden cache before kneeling in front of the fire, meditating, searching the surrounding area for danger.

It’s a difficult task because of all the ysalamiri lurking in the underbrush, but he senses no human lifeforms. These are, after all, the hinterlands, not yet settled enough to be considered a country all its own, although he suspects the indigenous folk feel differently about that.

Hux wakes well before sunrise, obviously well attuned to his internal clock. He pulls on his boots and properly adjusts his coat before he glances at Ren and says, “Ready?”

Ren rises to his feet and collects his things. Slipping on his helmet, he asks, _“Do you know where the slavers dock along the Lansa River?”_

Hux holds his hand out expectantly for Ren’s map. Once he has it, he points to a faint symbol nearby. “We’ve spotted huts here before while flying overhead. From what we can tell, there are usually ten to twenty slavers in the area at a time.”

_“How do you plan on dealing with them?”_

“I have explosives.” Hux pats his satchel gently. “We’ll create a distraction upstream and pick off anyone that stays behind.”

_“What if a barge isn’t there?”_

“There will be other boats moored up.” Hux folds the map and hands it back to him. “Trust me. We’ll make it to the coast in time.”

Ren isn’t in the habit of trusting plans made by other people, but he’s willing to wait until he can see what they’re dealing with before he makes any last-minute changes to the General’s strategy.

It takes them half a day to reach the camp. Ren spots the smoke coiling up into the skies before he sees any kind of structure. Through the shelter of the tree, he spies three large wooden cabins along the river and five or so smaller huts. Sure enough, there’s a boathouse and a small dock with a barge moored up, puffing steam, warming up for the day’s trip.

There are men and woman dressed in dark garbs milling about, eating and laughing. Most are armed with rifles and daggers.

Crouched down beside him in the bushes, Hux nods his head vaguely toward the forest upstream. “I’ll set the explosives. Try not to draw attention to yourself until you’re on the barge. In fact, don’t kill anyone before then.”

Ren scoffs at him but the vocoder distorts the noise in such a peculiar way that it confuses his companion.

“…Was that a no?”

 _“Set your explosives before the barge leaves,”_ Ren mutters.

Hux exhales irritably through his nose but leaves without further comment. Ren remains where he is, kneeling in the damp undergrowth, watching as two of the slavers start up an argument between themselves. Unless he’s mistaken, they’re fighting over an empty bottle of alcohol.

Before too long, Ren hears the first blast. It rattles the trees around him and stirs the slavers up into a mad flurry. They make a mad dash upstream, rifles raised, shouting in their peculiar tongue—just as a second, _much_ louder, explosion quakes the very ground beneath their feet. Clearly terrified by an attack of this magnitude, only a handful of the thirty or so slavers hang back to watch the camp, Tentatively, they spread out across the outpost, eyes trained on the trees, although their gazes turn now and again to the ruckus in the east.

Ren knows he could easily slip behind one of the larger huts and make a break for the dock, but as he approaches the camp, a slaver wanders too close to his position. Ren could, of course, hunker down and try to wait him out, but such a cowardly tactic is beneath him. He does not shy away from conflict. He meets it head on.

Lifting his hand, Ren draws the Force tight around the man’s throat. His prisoner jerks back a step in surprise, raising his own hand to loosen the imaginary noose cutting off his air supply. Finding nothing, he begins to panic in earnest and drops his rifle. His face turns beet red before his life expires.

Something Ren hadn’t been counting on is the fact that the man was still standing in fill view of the camp. Just as he drops to the ground dead, a woman darts into the forest from between two huts, rifle raised, and takes a shot at Ren.

Ren deflects the bullet with the Force. Or he tries to, at least. It skims his left shoulder, leaving a burning welt in its wake. It’s then that Ren realizes there’s a ysalamiri scurrying through the undergrowth in his direction, hissing wildly, its long tail thrashing behind it.

Remarkably, Ren had forgotten about the creatures.

The woman takes another shot at him, but Ren is already moving, sprinting, weaving through the trees toward her. She looks visibly shaken by his bold approach, fumbling now with her rifle to reload. Picking up speed quickly, Ren vaults at the last possible moment, both feet angled forward, kicking her square in the chest. He knocks the breath out of her as she flies back into another man, the force of Ren’s attack knocking them both to the ground.

The woman passes out instantly, ribs crushed, but her companion quickly rolls her limp figure off his body in order to retaliate. He whips a dagger out of his belt and moves as though to rise—just as Ren grabs him by the wrist and _twists_. In the alarming numbness that proceeds the pain, the man drops his dagger, which Ren deftly catches with his other hand. Immediately, he pivots back around, using the momentum of his spin to hurtle the knife at the ysalamiri as it closes in behind him. The blade sinks between ysalamiri’s eyes with a satisfying _thwack_.

However, Ren still feels oddly disconnected from the Force.

Irate, Ren turns back around to deal with the now-screaming man. Any pretense of sneaking through the camp unobserved is now well and truly destroyed. Ren takes his time in bracing the man’s head between his hands and snapping his neck. His broken cry echoes out into the forest. It sends a little thrill down Ren’s spine.

Having dispatched of half the remaining slavers already, Ren unhooks his lightsaber from his belt and proceeds forward. There’s a well up ahead in the centre of the camp. Just beyond it, he can see the boathouse and the dock. Once Hux returns, they’ll get out of here.

But as soon as he steps out from the narrow alleyway, he realizes his second mistake. There’s a man to his left, holding the leash to another ysalamiri. This one is at least as large as Ren.

Startled by Ren’s sudden appearance, the man releases his hold on the leash.

Ren takes a quick step to the right, dodging the ysalamiri’s lunge by a hairsbreadth. Reaching the limit of his patience with these devilish creatures, he holds his lightsaber out to extend it.

But with a sharp whistle and crack, pain lances up his arm and he instead drops it.

He turns halfway around, crouched down low, keeping both the first man and this new assailant in view. The second slaver pulls his whip back, stance relaxed, eyeing the shaft of Ren’s lightsaber where it lies on the ground. The corner of his lip crooks maliciously, realization dawning on him as he shifts his gaze to Ren.

The ysalamiri hisses, body wriggling, angling itself for another jump.

Ren is only pay the lot of them a fraction of his attention. He’s planning his next move inside his head, trying to gauge how long he has between the reaching his lightsaber and avoiding the next crack of his opponent’s whip.

It helps when there’s a gurgling cry behind him to distract the slavers. The second they glance away, Ren dives down into a roll, both hands closing around the shaft of his lightsaber as he rises again, blade extended, drawing his weapon up in a wide arch through the air. He cuts off the end of the whip before it can connect with his head, and then he side-steps nimbly to the left, bringing his lightsaber up and around again, this time to sever the ysalamiri’s head from its body as it lunges at him.

Before the creature hits the ground, Ren steps forward, swinging the blade low across his hips. The slaver drops his whip and stumbles back, folding his arms across his open gut, face twisted in agony. It causes Ren no small amount of delight to watch his legs buckle beneath him. The man collapses in the dirt with a strangled groan, bleeding out slowly, body trembling as he goes into shock. Connected once again to the Force, Ren can feel the man’s light in the universe dimming.

A shot suddenly rings out behind him.

He turns slowly, unconcerned, powering down his lightsaber. The other slaver had finally mustered the courage to raise his pistol, but there’s now a sizeable hole in his head that nullifies any thoughts he might’ve had of murdering Ren.

As the man’s body collapses to the ground, Hux, who’d been standing behind him, slowly lowers his pistol. He narrows his eyes at Ren suspiciously. “What happened?”

Ren has no intention of answering that question. Instead, he glances past Hux at the flood of people running from one of the larger cabins, most of whom appear to be unclean and severely malnourished. The youngest race for the weapons rack leaning against another hut before they turn on the slavers rushing back into the camp.

 _“You freed the captives?”_ Ren inquires, wondering at the wisdom of that idea as one of the older men rushes over to them, an unsheathed blade in his hand. His dark eyes are fixed warily on Ren before he turns his gaze on Hux.

Hux seems unperturbed, raising his hand against Ren when the Knight moves to extend his saber.

 _“Yan comen tritse mell_ , _”_ the man says.

 _“Prim aufance na comen tritsa,”_ Hux replies, pointing vaguely to the south. _“Jev non es tufflo carmen ta helet.”_

The man gives Ren one last leery look before returning to the swarm of his people. They’ve begun to open fire on the slavers now, chasing them back into forest.

“We need to leave,” Hux says suddenly, tucking his pistol into the confines of his coat. He jogs toward the dock, glancing left and right, keeping an eye out for more trouble as they move.

Ren follows close behind him, his connection with the Force wavering briefly again. But he neither sees nor hears another ysalamiri as Ren unmoors the small barge and jumps on board with Hux.

At first, it doesn’t appear as though the ship was built for speed. It has a large, square, wooden base and a small cabin situated near the back where the steam engine is housed. At the very stern of the barge is a large wheel to propel the vessel forward through the water. There’s nothing much else besides that. Just a lot of open space out on the deck where the captives are clearly meant to sit or stand for the duration of the trip.

“Watch the dock,” Hux barks at him as he runs to the stern, making a beeline for a lever situated beside the water wheel. Ren figures it’s the mechanism by which the wheel can be reengaged to the engine.

Sure enough, the barge shudders briefly before lurching forward. Ren is almost knocked over by the force. He keeps his eyes trained on the camp as they rapidly drift away, satisfied by the fact that they’re well on schedule to reach the _Finalizer_.

But, of course, there needs to be one last obstacle for the trip, that being the man that flops off the top of the cabin to land in a heavy crouch behind Hux. Ren spots the man first and takes immediately action by flinging him overboard with the Force. Unfortunately, he didn’t notice the man grabbing Hux by the back of his coat first, and it is therefore with some small sense of regret that Hux is pulled overboard with his assailant.

Alarmed, Ren leans over the railing and stares down into the dark, swirling waters. For a long moment, he sees neither one of the men. Then they both come sputtering to the surface. Hux looks completely stunned.

His assailant, on the other hand, is livid. He grabs Hux by the collar of his shirt before dragging him back under, just before Ren is able to get a fix on him.

Ren glances briefly downstream to ensure he’s not at risk of ramming into anything unexpectedly before scanning the water again. He thinks he sees movement at one point. He waits, wondering if he should jump in after the General.

Finally, Hux resurfaces, kicking hard at the other man as he gasps for air. It puts a little distance between them, enough that Ren knows the slaver isn’t close enough to make another grab for Hux before Ren pulls him under with the Force. Ren could kill him outright, of course, but there’s something terribly amusing in the look on Hux’s face as he wades past his assailant, watching him thrash madly just below the surface.

Eventually, Hux swims toward the barge. Ren waits until he knows the other man is dead before he leans down over the railing to help hoist Hux up. The General hits the deck with a wet smack, trembling from head to toe in the cold, blood dripping from his split lip.

Ren hooks his hand under one of Hux’s arms and hauls him to his feet. Hux says nothing as Ren pushes him into the warm cabin where the fire for the steam engine is burning merrily away behind a grate.

Hux sheds his sopping wet coat and satchel immediately and sits down on the stool beside the grate. He lost his scarf and gloves somehow in the water, but a glance at the coat reveals the golden gleam of Hux’s pistol still tucked away in one of the chest pockets. All things considered, Hux made it out of that situation relatively unscathed.

He looks considerably disturbed by the experience all the same.

Ren glances out the window at the front of the cabin and adjusts the steering wheel at the helm, just enough to make sure they’re still in a good position along the river.

“The map,” Hux suddenly says behind him, teeth chattering together.

Ren relinquishes it to him without question.

Hux studies it for a minute. Then he points to a spot far down the Lansa, to a small island that bisects the river. “Take the route on the left. There’s another slaver camp on the other side. I would like to avoid it at all costs.”

Hux hands him back the map and Ren tucks it into his tunic. Then the General stares absently at the grate to the steam engine, trembling uncontrollably.

After an uncomfortably long stretch of silence, Ren removes his helmet. He doesn’t know if Hux is in shock, but he needs to keep him focused. Searching for something to say, he eventually settles on an impromptu interrogation. “You were part of a ground operation in the hinterlands, weren’t you?”

Hux hums softly in a way that could easily mean either affirmation or indifference. However, after yet another long and awkward silence, he relents. “When I was younger, yes. I volunteered for one of the First Order’s initial expeditions.”

Ren finds his interest somewhat piqued, mostly because he would expect this place to be crawling with stormtroopers by now if that were true. “Why hasn’t the First Order taken over this region yet?”

“We learned early on that the slavers were a nuisance that cannot be controlled.” Hux shifts his position on his stool with obvious discomfort, as though he was revisiting a particularly vexing problem. “The indigenous people, on the other hand, have always been reliable allies. We began trading with them early on and realized how resourceful they could be. They tend to share information with us concerning what kind of planes they see flying overhead.”

“Is that how you found out about the stronghold in the mountains?”

“Yes.”

Ren glances out the window. Still safely on course, he returns his attention to Hux. “What did that man say to you?”

“He wanted to know who was helping him.” Hux pulls open the grate suddenly with a set of metal tong hanging on the wall beside the engine and stuffs a piece of wood inside before slamming it shut again. He’s trembling a little less now. “I told him I was from the First Order and that the forest was on fire because I was trying to distract the slavers. Speaking of which…” Hux’s brilliantly green eyes flicker to Ren. “You never answered my question. The slavers were predictably occupied with the fire before they heard someone shouting back at the camp. What happened?”

“I was spotted,” Ren says bluntly, hating that he has to admit that out loud.

The corner of Hux’s lip twitches with a vicious sort of satisfaction. Ren finds himself momentarily taken, once again, by the way the General’s fair features twist with such cruelty. “Had a hard time operating without the Force at your beck and call, did you?”

“I’ve never encountered so many ysalamiri in all my life,” is his immediate excuse. Which is the truth. Before his journey north, he’d only ever seen one up close before, a large and docile reptile curled comfortably around its owner’s shoulders in some dingy cantina in the desert. At that time, he’d assumed there was only one species of ysalamiri, the common cold-blooded kind that needed warmth to thrive. These ones, however, seemed to do just well without any heat whatsoever.

“I think that’s why the Resistance keeps to the mountains. Even their Jedi fear to tread here.”

“The Jedi are dead,” Ren mutters. He would know. He cut the last of them down where they stood. They crumpled before him like marionettes severed from their strings.

“Except your uncle,” Hux amends.

Surprise steals his voice away for a moment. But then he recalls Hux’s words from the night before, of how the General claimed to know ‘everything’ about him.

Not for the first time, Ren wonders why Snoke would share such sensitive information with the General. This man isn’t his equal. He’s a key component of the Emperor’s master plan, that much is clear, but it’s dangerous game Snoke is playing by allowing Hux to nurture any sense of self-importance. As clever and capable as he is, the General doesn’t require intel on Ren in order to perform his duties.

“You would do well to keep that information to yourself,” Ren warns, turning away, setting his hands on the wheel. He grips it harder

“Naturally,” Hux scoffs behind him, humor evident in his voice. “I’m merely trying to draw your attention to the fact that you rely too heavily on the Force. You had the opportunity to take a rifle from the camp and yet the only weapon presently on you is your saber. How do you expect to fight an opponent that can execute you at long range?”

There is sense in what Hux is saying, but Ren doesn’t need his lecture. “The northern hemisphere and all its little intricacies are solely your concern,” he snaps, keeping his gaze fixed on the glimmering water ahead. “You can keep your advice to yourself, General.”

Hux snorts derisively at him but says no more.

They sail down the river together without exchanging another word.

~***~

Hux is completely dry by midnight and takes the helm. Ren uses this reprieve to meditate. The hours fly by as he settles inside himself again, trying to stretch his sense of being far beyond his physical form. For a short while, he can discern the swelling sea, although this amplification of his field of view is only made possible by Snoke’s presence. He can feel his master behind his eyes, sampling memories, smoothing out old worries. Ren surrenders wholly to him and feels his vision of the world _beneath_ the world truly soar.

As always, Ren wonders how much Snoke sees when he parses through his mind. All of it or only a little? Does he see Poe Dameron falling through the sky on a stolen fighter? Does he see the slavers slaughtered by human hands, not one of them felled by the Force?

Does he see what Ren now covets? 

And as always, Ren is left with little information to decipher Snoke’s own thoughts and feelings. There’s only a lingering sense of satisfaction as Snoke retreats, the only indication he receives that the Emperor believes the sum of his operation thus far is a success. But that feeling alone is enough. Snoke usually makes no efforts to hide his displeasure. If he felt Ren was lacking in any aspect of his mission, Ren would know.

He returns to himself sometime around midday, having lost track of time. Hux is utterly silent. His rigid form remains where Ren last saw him, hands on the wheel, eyes cast forward. Ren tastes the air around him. Sense fatigue. And disappointment. He would delve deeper, but he knows Hux would notice. That would only sour things between them further.

Ren eats a protein bar. Then he throws more wood into the fire. Awake now, he finds maintaining Hux’s hostile silence too strenuous to bear anymore.

Finally, Hux cuts the mounting tension himself with a backward glance. “We’re almost to the coast,” he says, “but the Lansa veers north a few miles shy of it and meanders for about a day before it touches the sea. In under an hour, we’ll reach the town of Karan. It bridges the gap between the river and the ocean with man-made canals, although none are large enough for the barge.”

“We’ll acquire another boat there?”

“Yes. Then we’ll sail up coast to Varn’s Point.”

Ren nods. Stealing a fishing boat for the final stretch of their journey seems anticlimactic, but a success is a success, whatever form it comes in. The sooner they return to the _Finalizer_ , the sooner Ren can worry about his next plan of action in Saloria.

Ren steps out onto the deck for a little fresh air, his helmet tucked under his arm. It’s still chilly outside, but considerably less so than it was at the start of his journey. He stares down the river as a large dock looms into site, a city of stone buildings rising on the horizon behind it. The fishermen working there, hauling crates onto their boats, eye Ren suspiciously as Hux steers the barge in. It isn’t until Hux himself walks out on deck that they lose interest, seemingly satisfied that the pair of them are not slavers.

As soon as Hux steps up onto the dock, he pulls aside a dark-haired foreman and engages the man in his native tongue. Hux pauses to wave at the barge, obviously trying to barter it off.

The foreman doesn’t let Hux finish his spiel before he waves over another man, barking orders.

Ren stands off to one side, watching them carefully. He attempts to read the foreman’s mind, but he draws up a blank. A ysalamiri must be nearby.

Much to his surprise, the second man shoves a small coin purse at Hux before hoping on the barge. Curiously, a few of the fishermen take off their caps and begin laughing and waving at their comrade as the barge is slowly driven further downstream. A few of the smaller ships even take up after it.

Seemingly satisfied, Hux tucks the coin purse into his satchel. That malicious glee is shining in his eyes again. Ren’s collar feels uncomfortably warm at the sight of it.

“They’re going to drive the barge away from Karan and burn the damn thing,” Hux explains. “They are, of course, eternally grateful to the First Order for our efforts in undermining the slavers. We now have more than enough to pay for the last leg of our journey and a good meal.”

“ ‘ _Pay_ ’ ?” Ren murmurs, keeping his voice low as they walk the length of the dock toward the town.

“Of course,” Hux mutters. His jovial mood slowly melts back into disappointment. “At least a quarter of the people in Kansa know who I am and what I represent, so stealing another boat is out of the question. You need to play nice here, Lord Ren. For the First Order.”

Ren snorts as his sideways command to fall into line, but he decides against riling the General up any further. He’s too distracted by the sight of the ysalamiri stacked up in cages beside a street vendor. Behind the man hangs a rack of ysalamiri hides; on the grill in front of him, roasts what Ren can only assume is ysalamiri meat.

Hux, of course, follows his gaze. He glances once at Ren and the approaches the vendor, speaking nonsense again. The man reaches under his table to hand Hux a folded blue cloth before taking a proffered coin and nodding graciously at the General.

Ren slows his pace until Hux joins him again. He stares at the blue cloth in Hux’s hands, watching as he unfolds it. “What is that?”

“What do you think?” Hux asks quietly, revealing a small pile of dried meat. Suddenly, he holds it out to Ren. “Would you like to try?”

Ren’s mind reels from the offer. “Why on earth would I want to do that?”

“Because they vex you,” Hux laughs, his red, red mouth stretched into a crooked smile. “There was once a philosopher called Trillo who speculated that the ultimate form of triumph over one’s enemies would be their consumption, to break them down for sustenance in the most primitive way. He would never actually stoop to cannibalism himself—and, personally, I find such a practice appalling—however, here and now, we’ve encountered a situation in which we can put his theory to the test.” Hux once again holds his hand out to Ren. “Unless, of course, you’ve genuinely cannibalised someone before…?”

“Never,” he snaps, although he thinks he understands what Hux is trying to get at here. In fact, as he eyes the meat, he imagines the sense of satisfaction it would bring him to sink his teeth into one of those little demons. It would be a small victory, but a victory all the same.

But he doesn’t trust the meat at all, doesn’t know if it would further poison his connection to the Force. Ysalamiri are already dangerous enough alive. Why risk letting them get another stab at him in death?

“Interesting,” Hux murmurs, finally pulling his hand away. He picks up a long piece of jerky and takes a bite, tearing into it, chewing it, swallowing it. Ren is mesmerized with the man’s lips.

Watching Hux eat the ysalamiri does something to Ren that he can’t quite explain. In consuming one of Ren’s proverbial enemies, Hux suddenly becomes a vessel for them. Ren wants to put his mouth on Hux. Not to bite, but to _taste_. He wants to lick into the General’s mouth and sample the malice that lingers there. Wants to claim him again, like he did in the forest.

Once again, he covets.

He has to look away as Hux continues his meal. Hux is a vexing creature all his own. He both irritates and entices Ren in equal measure. He excites Ren in a way that killing never has before.

If Hux is aware of Ren’s inner turmoil, he says nothing of. He eats in peace as he leads the way through the winding streets toward the ocean docks. Ren spots more vendors selling ysalamiri along the way, feeling a wicked sense of satisfaction as the live ones buck and twist inside their cages. They might be a nuisance to him here, but they are all at death’s door in Karan. Only Ren can pass this way unharmed.

They follow one particularly straight canal to the sea itself. There are boats aplenty here. People mill about, selling fish or other supplies.

Ren doesn’t know where to begin.

“There’s a small island just off Varn’s Point,” Hux says suddenly. “The _Finalizer_ will be monitoring it. I think it might be more prudent to pay someone to drop us off there.”

“Whatever you deem necessary,” Ren replies, finally ceding to fact that Hux probably knows what’s best for the situation.

“Good, stay here.” Ren opens his mouth to protest, but Hux stops him with a severe look before his gaze flickers to the helmet still tucked under Ren’s arm. “You unnerve people. I would rather secure someone for the trip before they discover I’m taking you along for the ride.”

A muscle in Ren’s jaw twitches, but he waves Hux off. Hux turns and disappears into the crowd, his copper hair in a sea of blacks and greys the only thing Ren can see of him until Hux ducks into one of the stone buildings.

Agitated, Ren turns away and leans against the rickety wooden railing along the canal. On the water down below, an old woman rows sluggishly by, a stack of colorful rugs for sale in front of her. Ren looks at her and thinks of how unhospitable the indigenous people in the desert are by comparison, of how tightly they cling to the false doctrines of the Resistance. They’re a stark contrast to these people, almost a whole world away, who seem to have found reason with the First Order without much trouble at all. He wishes the Salorians could be so wise.

It feels as though he spends a small eternity just standing there, watching the smaller boats pass in and out of the canal. He finds it hard to focus without the Force to guide him. He’s more impatient than usual, but there is little he can do to remedy the situation until they’re no longer stuck on land. Once he’s away from this country and the ysalamiri, he’ll be more of himself again.

A while longer, and Ren begins to think it _has_ been a figurative eternity since Hux wandered off. In fact, it’ll be sunset in a couple of hours. If they don’t leave soon, spotters from _Finalizer_ probably won’t see them out on the water. They’d be forced to try again tomorrow.

Mildly alarmed, Ren starts off down the walkway beside the docks, trying to remember which cantina Hux disappeared into. When he finds it, he’s further irritated by the fact that it’s nearly empty, save for an old man slumbering in one corner and a young woman wiping down the bar at the far end. There is also a small boy attempting to sweep the floor with a broom that’s much too large for him.

Ren makes a beeline for the woman.

As expected, her gaze focuses first on the helmet under his arm before she stares up at his face. Her brow furrows curiously. _“Ohon?”_

“I don’t speak your language,” he snaps.

“Drink?” she translates.

“I’m looking for my companion.” He waves his hand vaguely toward his hair. “He’s a redhead. He came in here looking to hire a boat.”

She nods in understanding. “He talked to a few sailors. Argued with a group. Then left.”

“ _Left_?” he repeats, hoping he heard her wrong. “Who was he arguing with?”

The woman pauses, wincing as she searches for the right words. “They were strangers to me. There were seven of them. They came suddenly, and he was very angry with them, but they all left before I came back.” She gestures to a door behind the bar, one that likely leads to a kitchen.

The little boy looks up from his work, both hands on his broom, leaning his cheek into the handle. _“Ju dyak pistolo na hyn.”_

The woman snaps something back at the boy in shock, too quick for Ren to follow. The boy’s eyes widen before he nods his head vehemently. Whatever he saw, he believed it.

“I don’t understand,” Ren snaps.

“He says they had pistols,” the woman replies. “They pulled one on him. That is why he left with them.”

“Slavers?” Ren asks, alarmed., because that’s _exactly_ what they needed right now, a little vengeance from those lowlifes.

Surprisingly, the woman shakes her head. In fact, the look she flashes Ren suggests she’s insulted he assumes she would ever serve their kind here.

Before he can ask her to elaborate, she grabs a piece of white stone off the counter and begins drawing a sign on the wood. At first, he thinks her picture represents an upside-down crescent moon, but then she attempts to draw what appears to be a head between the two peaks. Very quickly, her artwork begins to resemble a particularly annoying bird.

And it’s one he recognizes well.

Hux has been taken by the Resistance.

“Do you know where they’re headed?” he asks impatiently. When she points to a small corridor beside the bar, the end of which has a door leading out the back of the building, Ren feels his anger cresting. He slams his helmet down hard onto the countertop. “Where are they _taking him_?!” he shouts for clarification, over-enunciating the words, hoping she understands the severity of the situation.

The slumbering man jerks awake at the sound of Ren’s voice but he stays right where he his, frozen in fear. The woman flinches back a step from Ren, but the boy doesn’t move. In fact, the child looks entranced.

The boy immediately flies into another heated conversation with the woman. At several points, he taps his forehead, as though miming some kind of headpiece.

Eventually, the woman attempts to translate for him. “Some wore goggles. The kind you need to fly.”

Pilots? Ren frowns. “Is there an airfield near here?”

The woman licks her lower lip thoughtfully and then points vaguely to the south. “It’s small? The First Order built it.”

Ren isn’t sure how frequently it’s used nowadays since Varn’s Point is obviously a big enough area for their airships, but it’s a start. It’s likely the First Order started off only using only small planes to reach the hinterlands so as not to frighten the indigenous people into thinking a wide-scale invasion was in the works.

He whips out his map and lays it down on the counter. “Show me where,” he demands.

She cranes her head over it, finds Karan, and then circles a small cliff overlooking the ocean to the south. A symbol has already been written in the exact same spot, but it’s been crossed out. Ren takes that to mean the airfield is no longer in use by the First Order. Which, ironically, probably serves the Resistance just fine.

Satisfied with this lead, Ren folds up the map and tucks it back into his tunic. Meanwhile, the woman yells something at the old man in the corner. Startled, the elderly gentleman jumps to his feet and makes a beeline for the corridor behind the bar. “Horse!” he shouts. “I have a horse!”

And indeed he does.

~***~

Unfortunately, even on horseback, Ren doesn’t reach the airfield before nightfall. The moonlight illuminates a long stretch of land just on the other side of the forest, the sea glistening beyond it under a blanket of stars. There is no plane in sight, but a large cabin beside the airfield is alight and he hears voices within as he draws near, keeping to the trees after he dismounts his stead.

He can’t sense anything. He chalks the problem up to the number of tiny ysalamiri climbing all over the place. More than once, one drops from an overhanging branch onto his head or shoulder. His helmet keeps them out of his hair, but he is still disgusted enough by them that he chucks them viciously into the darkness whenever he encounters them.

There are two men stationed at the back door that faces the road leading up to the airfield. Normally, Ren would use the Force to dispatch them, but instead he stays low, creeping through the bushes until he’s close enough to the hut to peer in through one of the side windows. He removes his helmet before he does to prevent the firelight within from reflecting off its chrome plating.

Six men are inside. One of them is Hux. He’s seated in a chair situated in the centre of the room, his hands tied behind his back, each ankle secured against one of the front legs. The cut above his left eye has been reopened and is bleeding profusely. A ring of bruises blossoms around his throat.

Damaged as he is, Hux still keeps his back straight, his chin up. He stares resolutely at the door leading to the airfield, malice shining in his eyes.

Two of his captors are rummaging through his satchel, sorting his things into two piles on a table beside the door: weapons and everything else. His dagger armlets are among the latter, although one of the blades is extended and coated in blood. If Ren had to guess, the man nursing a puncture wound in the corner was the unfortunate recipient of first-hand demonstration of the weapon. The other fellow with him, the one trying to stitch up the wound, is sporting a black eye.

Ren is unexpectedly pleased that Hux didn’t go down without a fight, that he still holds his head high with some sense dignity, even when the fifth and final member of the little group steps forward, a wooden club in hand.

The fellow taps it gently against Hux’s left knee. “What do you think?” he asks, glancing up at the two men rummaging through Hux’s satchel. “He doesn’t need to walk, does he?”

“The only thing he needs is his tongue,” the one with the puncture wound mutters. “I say we castrate him.”

Hux doesn’t say anything. Barely even moves. Just breathes.

The man with the club switches it to his left hand and then backhands Hux across the face with his right. He hits the General hard enough that he almost topples the chair over. Blood splatters against the floor. Hux, head bowed, heaves in pain.

Ren’s hand automatically goes to his lightsaber. He unclips it from his belt, wondering who he’ll start with first.

In this midst of deliberating, someone knocks at the door behind Hux. The man with the club grabs Hux by the hair and pulls his head back, sneering down at the General as the door swings open. Two men join the little cabal inside the cabin.

One of them is Poe Dameron.

The other is a fellow with a darker complexion and a buzzcut not too unlike the one the stormtroopers favor. Ren wonders if this is the traitor who helped Dameron on the _Infinity_. Ren’s genuinely surprised to see them both alive and in such good health. Then again, Dameron had always been one of the better fighter pilots he’d ever encountered. If anyone could pull off a crash landing with finesse, it would be him.

Stunned as he is to see the man, Ren hesitates, half-curious to learn what the man is doing here.

Dameron, cocky grin plastered across his face, saunters around Hux to stand before the General. He waves the man with the club off and then crouches down in front of his captive. “Well _hello~_ , beautiful,” he laughs. “General Armitage Hux, isn’t it? I’m Commander Poe Dameron and I’ve been asked to escort you off this rock. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Hux says nothing.

“Are you sure this is him?” one of the men at the table asks. He picks up Hux’s pistol, turning it over in his hands, admiring it. “He’s got quite the collection, but there’s nothing in here to confirm his identity or rank.”

“As if the gadgets weren’t clue enough,” Dameron murmurs gleefully, grin still cracked at the corner of his lips. “I have a photo, if you don’t believe me.” He reaches into his leather jacket and produces a black and white photograph. Oddly enough, he shows it to Hux, forcing the man with the club to circle around behind the General to get a look at it.

Confusion dims the light in Hux’s eyes.

Dameron’s smile widens. “I’ve had this pressed against my heart the whole trip, General, although I don’t think it does you justice, really.” He winks. “I had to use my imagination to fill in the colours. I’m pleased to discover you’re a redhead like your father.” Hux’s brow furrows in further confusion; Dameron merely laughs as he tucks the photograph back into his jacket pocket. “What? Who do you think gave me this?” He pats his breast. “Your old man was even kind enough to set the explosives on the _Primacy_. General Organa thought you perished in the crash, but then your father sent a missive that you were still alive. Nice guy, really. If a bit crazy.”

As Dameron prattles out his little tale, Hux’s features slowly relax with shock. He looks somehow paler than before, shaken to his core.

Ren has always hated his father, but he doesn’t know how he would’ve reacted if Han Solo had made the first move in their little war. To be undermined and discarded by the man who sired you in such a way as Hux has been forced to endure can’t be easy.

Surprisingly, Hux doesn’t allow himself to ruminate on this information for too long. He takes a deep breath and schools his features again.

But not before spitting in Dameron’s face.

The man behind Hux fists his hair and yanks the General’s head back, but Dameron raises his hand to stop him. He rises to his feet and pulls a white handkerchief out from his other breast pocket.

“One of our planes is due to arrive soon,” Dameron explains, wiping the blood from his face. “I will proceed alone with the General to the sea. Tomorrow morning, head out to the _Regina_.”

“He has a companion back in Karan,” the man with the club interjects. “What do we do about him?”

“Avoid him at all costs,” Dameron replies, tucking the handkerchief away. “His name is Kylo Ren. He’s the kind of bastard you don’t want to encounter in person. Ever.”

Ren doesn’t know whether or not to feel flattered by the small spark of fear in Dameron’s eyes. He almost wishes he could slip into his mind and relive the horrors he’s visited upon the man in the last five years since they first went toe to toe.

This thought is interrupted by a faint rumble in the distance. It takes Ren a moment to recognize the noise. Creeping toward the corner of the cabin, he spots a silhouette against the moon, a small fighter plane circling around for the best angle to approach the small runway. This, he presumes, is Dameron’s ticket out of here with General Hux.

A shot rings out in the night.

A chip of wood is blown off the corner of the cabin beside his head. Ren pivots sharply to see one of the two lookouts scrambling to reload his rifle. Ren drops his helmet and rushes the man.

Saber ignited, he’s able to run the man through before he can fire off his next shot. The second lookout is behind him, rifle raised. Ren shoves his first assailant into his companion, who catches his foot on a tree root and tumbles backward. A quick swipe with his saber sees the man beheaded.

“Drop it.”

Behind him, far back beside the other corner of the cabin, stands Poe Dameron, pistol drawn, pointed unwavering at Ren’s head.

Dameron is the kind of man who doesn’t miss.

Ren doesn’t move, saber still extended, watching Dameron closely. He doesn’t need to be able to read the man’s mind to see how much the Commander wants him dead. In fact, possibly the only thing stopping him from shooting Ren now is Dameron’s respect for General Organa.

“If you move, I _will_ kill you,” Dameron spits. They’ve fought each other for too long. The man already knows how Ren thinks.

There’s the sound of a scuffle before another Resistance member appears behind Dameron, the one who had been holding the club. But he’s replaced the club with Hux’s pistol, now digging the barrel end into the General’s temple. His other arm is up around Hux’s throat, holding him pressed back against his chest.

“Kill him,” the man hisses. “We’ve got to kill them both.”

Dameron glances back at him in alarm, but only briefly, firearm still trained on Ren. “Get him to the goddamn plane already, Bronc. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“What the fuck for!” Bronc snaps. He digs the barrel in deeper.

Hux winces. Then he laughs. “You little cunt,” he says, so uncharacteristic of his usual sensible self it shocks Ren and Dameron both. Ren wishes the General wouldn’t egg him on like that. “Get fucked.”

The surprised look on Bronc’s face would be comical if not for the fact that he reacts in just the way Ren feared he would.

He squeezes the trigger.

But something peculiar happens then. Instead of a roaring shot, there’s a gush of blood and a shrill scream. The right side of Hux’s face is drenched in red, but the General is still smiling, crouching quickly to grab his pistol. However, before he can get his hand on it, Dameron pivots and fires a shot off at the ground in front of the General, forcing Hux to instead duck back around the cabin and out of sight.

All the while, Bronc is still screaming. It takes Ren a horrendously long time to realize his finger has been severed from his hand by some peculiar mechanism in Hux’s trigger. That must be why he warned Ren against trying to fire the pistol himself.

To his credit, Dameron doesn’t lose track of what needs to be done in all the mayhem. He darts around the cabin after Hux without sparing Ren so much as a glance. Ren assumes this is a mistake—up until the wooden club connects with his right shoulder.

Pain explodes down his arm. He drops his saber. On impulse, he clenches his right hand into a fist to prevent it from numbing, pivoting away from his assailant to give himself a little distance as he assesses the damage. Of course, he’d been jumped by the traitor, although thankfully it doesn’t feel as though he broke anything. Agonizing as it is to move his arm, everything is still fully functional.

The traitor pauses a moment before lunging again. Ren takes a deep breath, ducks the first swing and raises his hand to grab the club on the second. At the same time, he twists his body around. Hard. The traitor, not wanting to relinquish his hold on the club, is thrown bodily over Ren’s shoulder and into the under bush. Unfortunately, the man hits the top of a ditch and begins tumbling downward into the darkness, branches snapping and ysalamiri hissing as he goes.

Ren would love nothing more than to chase him down and bash his brains out, but he has more pressing matters to deal with. He drops the club in favor of scooping up his saber and then darts around the cabin, hoping to catch up to Dameron before Dameron catches up to Hux.

From what he can immediately see, there are two figures rolling around on the ground beside the parked plane, its engine still running. Hux is on top, bearing his fist down into the pilot’s face until the unfortunate man goes completely limp. Dameron, meanwhile, is halfway across the runway, pistol raised, shouting something into the wind. Hux looks up at him, alarmed.

Ren doesn’t know if Dameron will shoot to kill the General now, considering how spectacularly he’s currently failed his mission, but he knows he needs to act fast. Thankfully, out here on the runway, a little farther from the forest and the ysalamiri that find sanctuary in there, Ren feels the Force licking at the back of his mind once again. It’s more of a spark than anything else, but he lashes out with it as soon as he can feel its soothing touch.

Dameron’s arm is yanked up above his hand, unable to keep his pistol trained on Hux. He doesn’t pull off a shot though, which means he probably wasn’t planning on killing the General, but the Commander is familiar enough with Ren’s tactics that he uses the momentum to spin back around and fire at him instead.

The bullet strikes clean through the muscle of Ren’s right arm, close to where the traitor hit him. Ren’s vision doubles at the agony. He thinks he screams, but he can’t be sure. He’s momentarily trapped in a world of pain.

But he doesn’t falter. He stays upright somehow. Staggers forward a step. Looking down, he sees his lightsaber on the ground between his feet.

He kneels to pick it up with his left hand. Dameron is running now, making a break for the forest because Hux is finally on his feet, firing at him with the pilot’s pistol. Once Dameron is out of sight, Hux deftly takes aim at someone just behind Ren and pulls the trigger.

Ren hears the body hitting the ground but doesn’t have time to spare to observe Hux’s handiwork. He forces himself onward, stumbling into Hux once he reaches the plane. They’re both covered in blood. Ren wants to laugh.

“Can you fly?” he asks.

“Of course,” Hux scoffs, pushing him toward the front of the plane.

Ren complies with his unspoken order, flopping over the lip of the plane and into the front seat. Dimly, he realizes the controls have been removed from his cabin and there are chains smoldered to floor for someone’s ankles. He can only assume this was supposed to be Hux’s seat.

Without controls, Ren can’t open fire on anyone. He winces every time a bullet ricochets off the body of the plane as Hux dives into the back seat and turns the plane around. As soon as they’re facing back down the runway, he guns it. The wind whips through Ren’s hair as they barrel toward the edge of the cliff.

Ren closes his eyes. Hux might’ve once been a grunt who flew planes, but he’s a General now. It’s probably been a while for him.

It’s probably been a _long_ while.

Suddenly, the plane tips forward. Ren opens his eyes to see the starlight glinting off the rushing waves as the ocean rises up to meet them.

Hux pulls them skyward not a moment too soon.

And he has the audacity to laugh about it too.

~***~

It takes them no time at all to reach Varn’s Point, but instead of angling toward the larger airfield, Hux instead steers them toward the small island just off the coast. And it is, quite noticeably, _small_. So much so, Ren wonders at the wisdom of this move, although he assumes Hux wants to stay off the mainland lest the Resistance attempts to track them down again. After a great deal of maneuvering, Hux is somehow able to touch down on the island, although it’s a bumpy ride until they slow to a halt.

Lightheaded, Ren almost confuses their terrifying landing for a dream. Evident as it is that Hux can fly, the General obviously hasn’t brushed up on his landing skills. But Ren says nothing of it because they’re both alive and in one piece, if a little worse for wear.

After Hux kills the engine, the General climbs out of his seat and walks toward the front of the plane. He glances up at Ren. “How’s the arm?”

Ren’s seat is, quite literally, a bloody mess. He took off his belt and tightened it above the wound to stem the flow, dipping into the Force to facilitate his convalescence. If he’s able to get it stitched closed soon, he’ll be able to cut his downtime with it to just a few days.

“It’s fine,” he grumbles, pushing himself up. Hux looks as though he wants to offer Ren assistance, but Ren waves him back. He hops out of the plane, vision swimming briefly as his feet hit the ground. “How do we notify the _Finalizer_ of our arrival?”

“Oh, they can probably already see us,” Hux says, glancing out across the water. “The fact that a Resistance plane landed here will make them leery, but once they realize who we are, they’ll send someone over.”

“You don’t look like yourself,” Ren mumbles. The blood on Hux’s face is almost black under the moonlight. It’s caked all over his face and neck. He looks like a proper horror.

That warmth returns, the little demon inside of Ren that sings at the sight of the General’s malicious glee.

Ren grabs Hux by the front of his bloody shirt and kisses the man.

Hux makes a soft sound of surprise against his lips. There’s about half a second where the General tilts his head to accommodate the kiss before Hux’s brain catches up to the rest of him and he pushes Ren away. “Compose yourself!” he snaps.

Ren’s vision swims again and he smiles.

Hux stomps off toward the little beach beside the plane and crouches down by the water, scooping it up and into his face to wash off the blood. It probably stings something awful against his open wounds, but Hux works diligently, if for no other reason than to delay having to interact with Ren again.

Crouched down as he is, Hux is the first to notice the change in the waves. They get choppier and recede momentarily. He takes a step back, eyeing the sea. Ren follows his gaze to the black figure that rises from the water. It only takes him a second to realize what it is he’s looking at.

It’s the top deck of the _Finalizer_.

~***~

A rowboat is eventually sent to collect them. Lt. Mitaka rides it out with a small unit of stormtroopers, just in case Hux and Ren aren’t who the _Finalizer_ really thinks they are. On the ride back to the ship, Ren listens in half a daze as Mitaka relays the fact that the _Infinity_ made it to Varn’s Point in one piece. Hux looks pleased with this information, although noticeably less so when Mitaka reveals that Captain Peavey was in impeccable health following the attack.

“The fool hasn’t been shot once in all his life,” Hux mutters.

Mitaka smiles, as though this is something of a private joke between them.

Knowing Captain Peavey, Ren quietly agrees with them.

Ren is immediately shuttled off to the Medbay once they’re on board the _Finalizer_. Hux waves off any such efforts to do the same to him, instead requesting that a doctor be sent down to his quarters. He has important work to do, he claims.

Baffled, Ren has to wonder what kind of work this must be, considering he’s spent the better part of the week as a captive. But then Hux shares a secret look with Captain Phasma, saying nothing, simply staring at her across the loading bay. The corner of Phasma’s lip quirks before she falls in line behind the General, and it’s then that Ren recalls Captain Archex’s tale of Admiral Mafe.

Important work indeed.

His arm is tended to, although now that he’s connected to the Force he mends it almost entirely on his own. The blank stare he receives from the physician when he explains that he was shot less than a day ago is most entertaining.

But it’s not as entertaining as watching Hux in action will be, he thinks, as the surgeon snips away at the new flesh already trying to grow over the wound to properly stitch it shut. This is Hux’s ship, after all. If his personal pistol is anything to go by, the _Finalizer_ must be equipped with the most fascinating weaponry.

He is therefore displeased to learn that they are _not_ , in fact, on their way to yet another Resistance stronghold.

“We’ve received word that it’s been abandoned,” Mitaka explains from where he stands beside the door, hands folded neatly together behind his back. “Presently, we’re en route to the Capital.”

Ren’s helmet is still lying somewhere on that abandoned airfield, but he somehow manages to school his features well enough without it. He can’t help but feel disappointed. “How long before we get there?”

Lt. Mitaka slips his brass pocket watch out and checks the time. “Just under eighteen hours, Sir. We will, of course, keep you informed of any unscheduled detours.”

Ren waves him off. Then he scares the doctor off before returning to his private quarters. He washes himself down with the fresh water in the basin beside his bed and then sits on the floor to meditate. The Force flows through him like a cool breeze, sharp and lively, a spirit all its own. He hopes he never encounters another ysalamiri again.

Such a thought ironically derails his attempts at meditation, mostly because it reminds him of Hux’s speech—which, in turn, reminds him of Hux himself. He has less than a day left in close proximity of the General. Then he’ll return to the dry, hot desert and the war waiting for him buried beneath the burning sands.

Unable to focus, he leaves his quarters and pulls aside the first trooper he encounters in the corridor. As requested, the woman leads him to Hux’s quarters. As they approach the final corridor though, she tries to explain that the General is resting; Ren removes such a concern from her mind with the wave of his hand.

Obediently, she knocks on the General’s door. “Lord Kylo Ren is here to see you, Sir.”

There’s a long pause. The woman keeps her fist raised, waiting. Just as she moves to knock again, Hux’s voice drifts out to them through the door: “Enter.”

Ren gives the woman a pointed look and she scrambles off to return to her duties. Satisfied, Ren steps into the room.

Oddly enough, Hux’s quarters are not much larger than his own. There’s a small cot in one corner and a water basin on a stand. Adjacent to it is a mirror nailed to the door of his closet; opposite it is an intricate wooden cabinet with a complex locking mechanism. The only other piece of furniture is a desk, which is nailed down to the floor in the centre of the room and faces the door. Hux is currently seated there, illuminated only by the electric lamp at his side, carefully inking in the details on a map.

Ren steps forward and cranes his head to better see the landscape. Not surprisingly, it’s the hinterlands. Hux is apparently updating what he remembers of the mountains.

Admittedly, Ren is impressed with his work. “Cartography is another skill of yours, I see.”

“I like to keep busy,” Hux replies, finally setting down his pen. He glances up at Ren, green eyes bright and lively. “Idle hands, after all, are the devil’s workshop.”

“I wonder who utilizes the ambitious ones,” Ren murmurs, studying the General’s face. The cut across his left brow has been stitched shut again. There’s a faint bruise below his eye where Bronc struck him, but thankfully the cheek isn’t horribly swollen. The dark spots around his throat are mostly hidden beneath his collar. “I was told you were resting.”

“Doctor’s orders,” Hux sighs, as though he disagrees with that prescription. He rises from his seat, smoothing down the front of his black tunic. He looks good in his uniform. Trim. Lovely. Ren wants to peel the leather gloves from Hux’s hands and roll his tongue against the pads of his pale fingers. “Is there something I can help you with? Lt. Mitaka assured me you were already informed of the change in plans.”

Ren nods. Slowly, he steps around the desk to join the General. He can sense the man’s excitement and unease. His aura has an edge of…expectation, as if he knew Ren would search him out eventually.

Ren’s interrogated enough people in his time to realize that silence has a way of wringing the words from anyone’s lips. They try to fill the quiet with sound to distract you and end up revealing their little secrets instead.

Hux, it seems, is no different. “You’re timing was impeccable yesterday.” Slowly, he pulls off his left glove and tosses it onto his chair. “Did you only just arrive when the first shot rang out or…?”

Ren’s eyes are glued to Hux’s right hand as he removes the other glove and tosses that down as well. “A little while before that,” he breathes, dragging his gaze up along the General’s arm. He stares into those green, green eyes and internally rejoices at the calculating look brewing between his gentle brows. “I crept up to the window. I wanted to hear what Commander Dameron had to say.”

Fear flashes behind the General’s eyes before Hux beats it back down again. Ren wonders why Hux is so frightened.

“And what did you hear?” Hux asks softly, tilting his head back slightly as Ren inches closer.

Ren rather thinks dwelling on Dameron’s speech would put a damper on the mood right now, but he’ll give Hux what he wants and see where it leads him. “I heard that your father is a traitor.”

Hux swallows. There’s that fear again. Ren wants to address it, but still he waits. Hux feels as though he’s working his way into a corner and Ren would like to see what he does once his back is up against the proverbial wall.

Hux’s gaze flickers down to Ren’s chest, suddenly incapable of looking him in the eye. “That, of course, makes me the _son_ of a traitor…”

…

 _Ah_.

Snoke probably won’t care about that. If anything, he’s already aware of how utterly unhinged Brendol Hux is. Everything is a test, so far as the Emperor is concerned, and this assassination attempt could very well be one for the younger Hux.

However, Ren can see the trouble this will cause Hux with the other officers of the First Order if word gets out. Considering how much stock these people put into good genetics, it’ll only be a matter of time before someone else tries to do away with Armitage to prevent future signs of treason.

Ren, of course, has no intention of letting this kind of information become public knowledge, but he finally understands where Hux is going with this. He takes a step closer. He senses more than just fear from Hux. Arousal too, sharp and heady…

“An unfair assessment,” Ren muses. He traces one gloved finger up along the back of Hux’s left hand, hooking it on the sleeve of his tunic, tugging on it. He maintains eye contact with the General, watching as Hux’s eyes dilate. “It will be with great regret that I inform Emperor Snoke of his transgressions. Unless, of course, fate intervenes...”

“Fate?” Hux inquires, recognizing the blatant opening for what it is. He’s finally more aroused than afraid now. Ren can practically hear his heart racing beneath his ribs.

“I see no reason to report him if he’s dead,” Ren whispers. “When we return to the Capital, I think I will spend the day meditating and purifying myself. I’ll say a prayer for you before I speak with the Emperor in the evening. Truly, General, I wish you all the best.”

Hux’s face, as always, is a fantastic thing to observe. There's the barest curl at the corner of his lips, that enticing hint of malicious glee.

Then Hux is kissing him and the darkest parts of Ren exult at the General’s capitulation, of his downward spiral into such a predictable and primal act of self-preservation. Already the man is fiddling with the clasps on Ren’s surcoat, peeling his layers away with nimble fingers.

Ren undresses him with equal haste, laughing against that clever mouth, steering them toward the bed. “What’s this?” he asks in jest, his hands finally free of his gloves, clutching at the naked skin over the General’s delightful hips. He remembers how they rolled against him, how good they felt before.

“Consider this a reward,” Hux breathes, pushing him back against the sheets and straddling his waist. He looks glorious completely bare. Somehow more powerful than ever before. “For both of us.”

~***~

Ren, of course, does not spend the following day meditating in his palace quarters.

He instead finds himself mentally revisiting his last liaison with the General. Hux had straddled Ren’s hips and rode him hard, smirking all the time, moving with practiced ease, as though exchanging such rare pleasures was the simplest thing in all the world. Hux had been as equally accommodating a short while later when Ren rolled them over and took him again, kissing him, satisfying him in return. He was so wonderfully soft and yielding. The six or so hours they spent together were simply not enough.

Later that evening though, Ren tries with every fibre of his being to keep his memory of said liaison buried deep within his psyche. He tries to think of the ysalamiri, of their varied length and size, of how much he _hated_ them.

“Calm yourself, Lord Ren,” Snoke sighs, sitting peacefully on his throne. He himself is utterly calm, even though Hux is late.

Ren was informed on his way over to the throne room that this was to be a joint meeting between the three of them. He almost choked when he heard that. He doesn’t think he can look at Hux without picturing his pale form stretched out on his sheets, head thrown back in delight.

“I am calm,” Ren mumbles, somehow feeling five years younger, like a child caught doing something utterly stupid.

“You are _agitated_ ,” Snoke amends. “I wonder why that is?”

Ren takes a deep breath; thinks of the ysalamiri. “I would like to know why the General is taking so long, Your Majesty.”

“Haven’t you heard?” The tone of Snoke’s voice drips with dark amusement. “His father was bitten by a Parnassos beetle this morning. He’s been in the throes of death all day.”

A Parnassos beetle? If Ren recalls Archex’s stories correctly, their venom liquefies a person’s internal organs over the course of a few days. It’s an agonizing way to die. There is no cure.

The corner of his lip twitches into a smile.

He quickly schools his features and stands in silence, waiting for the General to appear.

Inevitably, Hux does make an appearance. He’s perfectly composed, not a hair out of place as he stops beside Ren and salutes the Emperor. “Your Majesty.”

“Our deepest condolences,” Snoke replies, amusement still evident in his voice.

“Sir?” Hux says quizzically. Then he swallows. “Oh, yes, well…my father isn’t dead yet, Your Majesty.”

“Soon enough, I'm sure.” Snoke adjusts his posture on his throne, apparently already bored with this topic of conversation. He waves all thoughts of Brendol Hux away and says, “There’s a reason I wanted to speak with you both.”

Hux tenses beside him. Ren wonders if he himself missed something important. He knows they encountered setbacks on the journey, but all things considered…

“We’ll begin with you, General.” Snoke steeples his fingers together, elbows braced against the armrests of his throne. He gives Hux a cold, hard stare. “You shouldn’t have been captured. In fact, the events leading up to your failed attempt at storming the Resistance stronghold in the mountains could have easily been avoided.”

Hux opens his mouth to say something and then closes it again, at a loss for words.

Snoke waits a moment before he continues. “You remedied the situation today, but I have to wonder if sentiment isn’t what delayed your hand.”

Hux recoils as if he’s just been slapped. Ren figures he’s surprised both by Snoke’s blatant acceptance of Brendol’s murder and the fact that Snoke would accuse him of being _sentimental_.

“Your Majesty, I—”

Snoke holds his hand up for silence. “I don’t want excuses. I want you to realize that you are not as indestructible as you once imagined. You have weaknesses that need to be addressed. Unfortunately, by someone other than yourself, I think.”

Confusion draws the General’s features up tight. But before Hux can ask him to elaborate, Snoke’s steely gaze turns on Ren.

“I believe the General touched upon your failings already,” Snoke says. Shame washes over Ren, piercing him through to the bone. “You rely too much on your connection to the Force. A more adapt warrior would not have allowed himself to be wounded as you were by Commander Dameron. To be shot like that is almost _disgraceful_.”

Snoke’s assessment is a pure reflection of his own. The fact that it was Poe Dameron of all people who shot him somehow makes the whole experience that much worse.

Snoke takes a deep breath, eyes still boring into Ren, weighing him in some inexplicable way inside his mind. “I think you’ve grown too comfortable in the desert. Clearly, your training must continue in the north.”

Ren almost shudders at the thought.  “Master, I merely—”

“When I want your opinion, Lord Ren, _I will ask for it_.”

Ren snaps his mouth shut. So hard, in fact, the muscles in his jaw twitch.

An uncomfortable silence stretches out between the three of them, but neither Ren nor Hux are bold enough to break it. They simply stand there, on trial, waiting for their Emperor to pass judgment on them both.

Finally, Snoke speaks again, temper somewhat mollified by their rigid compliance. “There is, I believe, a simple solution to each of your problems. General—” Hux tilts his head back curiously, brow furrowed with concern “—Lord Ren will continue to accompany you on all future missions. He is your co-commander and your equal. You won’t so much as _entertain_ the idea of imperiling either yourself or your work without his consultation. Do I make myself clear?”

The General’s lips part in disbelief. Ren can recognize the indignity that’s been heaped upon the man, to be assigned a personal guard whose _permission_ he requires in order to act is probably one of the deepest blows that can be dealt to someone of his rank and experience.

At the same time, Ren is quietly seething over the injustice of being made anyone’s co-commander. Capable as the General is, he is _not_ Ren’s equal.

“I believe I asked you a question,” Snoke presses.

Hux’s mouth clicks shut. He swallows again to compose himself, although his voice sounds somewhat tight as he says, “Yes, Your Majesty. I understand perfectly.”

 “And you, Lord Ren?” Snoke turns his gaze, once more, on his apprentice. “Do you have an _opinion_ for this as well?”

“Whatever your bidding,” he murmurs, “I will serve you.”

Satisfied with his answer, Snoke relaxes his posture. “You are dismissed, General.”

“Your Majesty,” Hux salutes. As he turns away from the Emperor, his gaze lingers a moment on Ren.

His eyes burn with something unspeakable.

Ren wonders if Snoke is trying to drive a wedge between them.

As soon as the doors to the throne room close behind the General, Snoke addresses Ren’s silent inquiry head on. “The work he does for me is sensitive,” the Emperor sighs. “I’ve had several of his partners killed in the past. Thankfully, the General is normally a solitary creature.”

Ren tenses. “…You disapprove?”

“I trust you,” Snoke scoffs. It’s the closest thing to a compliment he’s afforded Ren all day. “But a word of caution, Lord Ren: insanity is a familial malady in the line of Hux. The General is the kind of dog that will always inevitably bite.”

Ren bows his head in understanding. He can deal with insanity, he thinks. If he can channel that into passion, he and the General will continue to get along just fine.

“And another thing,” Snoke says, tapping his finger against his throne. “He killed his father. I think you could learn something from that.”

Ren bristles at the suggestion but doesn’t openly disagree. There will come a day when he will finally find the opportunity to kill Han Solo.

With his own hands.

“You are dismissed,” Snoke says, waving him away.

Ren bows in respect and retreats out into the hall. No one is out there, but he thinks he knows where the General is lurking.

Sure enough, he finds the man before too long down in the subterranean docks. He is standing far from the _Finalizer_ , gazing down into the dark water. He stands with his hands behind his back, as if waiting.

Ren steps up beside him quietly and studies his face. Hux looks somehow more relaxed down here, although he feels tense.

“Why did your father try to kill you?”

Hux spares him a glance before staring out across the water again. “He’s a narcissist.”

“And?”

“As a child, he saw me as an extension of himself. I was supposed to become an officer and climb the ranks with ease to demonstrate the superiority of his genetics.” Hux shifts his weight between his feet, clearly uncomfortable with this discussion. “As soon as I began to outshine him, I instead became a very persistent problem. That’s all there is to it, I’m afraid.”

The way Hux says it makes it seem so simple. But maybe it really is. Ren has never had much faith in humanity.

Something stirs the water before them. It is black and smooth and breaks the surface briefly before retreating once again into the darkness. Ren finds himself taking a step closer to the edge of the dock in hopes of catching another glimpse.

“It’s a machine,” Hux explains, taking notice of his obvious interest. “It’s a smaller ship that should be able to eject itself from the _Finalizer_ in battle.” Something like pride flashes across his eyes. “A sort of one-man fighter for the sea, if you will.”

“And your weapon of mass destruction,” Ren inquires, now that he’s able to touch upon the topic as Hux’s ‘co-commander’, “what does _it_ do?"

Hux gives him a guarded look, eyes calculating, more than aware that Ren has every right to know what he’s been up to.

With a devious crook of the lip, Hux turns back to the water. “It will be much easier to explain that with a demonstration.”

“Then demonstrate.”

“It’s not in the Capital.”

Ren finds that peculiar, given that the Capital is arguably the safest place for such a weapon. “Why not?”

Hux’s smile only grows. “Because it’s much bigger than the city.”

For some reason, Ren doesn’t feel compelled to search him for the truth. Given all that he’s seen the man do so far, and given Snoke’s obvious interest in the General, Ren has remarkably no trouble in believing him.

He stands there a while longer in companionable silence, watching the General’s invention as it glides gracefully through the water. He knows he’s only skimmed the surface of Hux’s mind, that he still has so much to learn about the man, but he has plenty of time yet to pull him apart. Slowly, but surely, he will unravel all his little secrets and discover how best to mold the man into a more savory partnership. This faux equality, of course, will not last.

But for now, he is content to let Hux believe otherwise.

Satisfied, he watches and he waits.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thank you, gentle reader, for putting up with 27,000+ words of utter nonsense. Again, my understanding of Steampunk is still iffy, so I apologize if it isn't up to par. Even so, I'm a little tempted to continue this series (although not before I finish my other kylux fic). Additionally, I apologize for any grammar or spelling mistakes. My wife agreed to edit this for me, but then I spelled 'Mitaka' seven different ways in a row and she just about died laughing. I can't kill her, you guys. I love her too much. And I made a vow not to anyway. Please feel free to point out any glaring errors that you might find though. I don't mind criticism.
> 
> Happy Valentines Day, everyone.


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